m 

■MO^^^uf^gGSI'v^'tF'                                   '-:£^^tS5S9BSS£ffii?SiSl3^Al^^i3S^     ? 

1 

IB        ^Zl^^^l 

B 

U         nSSBK 

•i^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^K' 

^KkTye-smith 

■ 

' 

■ 

1 
1 

•  ; 

: 

1 

r 

I' 

c 

r 

1 

■  t 

1 

UHWE^SITY  OF  CMiFOUNlA 
^  RIVERSIDE 


EX  LIBRIS 
MARYA.MCDOEL  KENLY 


JOAxNNA  GODDEN 


BT    TEE    SAME    AUTHOR 

Tamarisk  Town 
The  ChaliLenge  to  Sirius 
Green  Apple  Harvest 
The  Four  Roads 

E.   P.   BUTTON   &   COMPANY 


JOANNA    GODDEN 


BY 

SHEILA   KAYE-SMITH 

AUTHOR   OF  "tamarisk  TOWN,"  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

E.    P.    DUTTON    &    COMPANY 

681    FIFni    AVENUE 


Copyright,  1922, 
By  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company 


All  Rights  Reserved 

First  printing January,  19SS 

Second  printing January,  1922 

Third  printing February,  1922 

Fourth  printing February,  1922 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED 
STATES   OF   AMERICA 


TO 

W.   L.    GEORGE 


CONTENTS 

PART   ONE 


PAGE 


Shepherd's  Hey 

PART   TWO 

if  y 

First  Love 

PART    THREE 
The  Little  Sister ^"^^ 

PART    FOUR 
Last  Love s    ,    ,    .    .  239 


PART    ONE 
SHEPHERD'S    HEY 


JOANNA   GODDEN 


PART  I 
SHEPHERD'S  HEY 

§  1 

Three  marshes  spread  across  the  triangle  made  by  the 
Royal  Military  Canal  and  the  coasts  of  Sussex  and  Kent. 
The  Military  Canal  runs  from  Hythe  to  Rye,  beside  the 
Military  Road;  between  it  and  the  flat,  white  beaches  of  the 
channel  lie  Romney  Marsh,  Dunge  Marsh  and  Walland 
Marsh,  from  east  to  west.  Walland  Marsh  is  sectored  by 
the  Kent  Ditch,  which  draws  huge,  straggling  diagrams  here, 
to  preserve  ancient  rights  of  parishes  and  the  monks  of  Can- 
terbury. Dunge  Marsh  runs  up  into  the  apex  of  the  triangle 
at  Dunge  Ness,  and  adds  to  itself  twenty  feet  of  shingle 
every  year.  Romney  Marsh  is  the  sixth  continent  and  the 
eighth  wonder  of  the  world. 

The  three  marshes  are  much  alike;  indeed  to  the  for- 
eigner they  are  all  a  single  spread  of  green,  slatted  with 
watercourses.  No  river  crosses  them,  for  the  Rothcr 
curves  close  under  Rye  Hill,  though  these  marshes  were 
made  by  its  ancient  mouth,  when  it  was  the  River  Limine 
and  ran  into  the  Channel  at  Old  Romney.  There  are  a  few 
big  watercourses — the  New  Sewer,  the  Yokes  Sewer,  the 
White  Kemp  Sewer — there  are  a  few  white  roads,  and  a 
great  many  marsh  villages— Brenzett,  Ivychurch.  I'^airCiold, 
Snargatc,  Snave — each  little  more  than  a  church  with  a 
farmhouse  or  two.     Here  and  there,  little  deserted  chapels 

3 


4  JOANNA    GODDEN 

lie  out  on  the  marsh,  officeless  since  the  days  of  the  monks 
of  Canterbury ;  and  everywhere  there  are  farms,  with  hun- 
dreds of  sheep  grazing  on  the  thick  pastures. 

Little  Ansdore  Farm  was  on  Walland  Marsh,  three  miles 
from  Rye,  and  about  midway  between  the  villages  of  Brod- 
nyx  and  Pedlinge.  It  was  a  sea  farm.  There  were  no  hop- 
gardens, as  on  the  farms  inland,  no  white-cowled  oasts,  and 
scarcely  more  than  twelve  acres  under  the  plough.  Three 
hundred  acres  of  pasture  spread  round  Ansdore,  dappled 
over  with  the  big  Kent  sheep — the  road  from  Pedlinge  to 
Brodnyx  w^ent  through  them,  curling  and  looping  and 
doubling  to  the  demands  of  the  dykes.  Just  beyond  Ped- 
linge, it  turned  northward  and  crossed  the  South  Eastern 
Railway  under  the  hills  that  used  to  be  the  coast  of  Eng- 
land, long  ago  when  the  sea  flowed  up  over  the  marsh  to 
the  walls  of  Lympne  and  Rye ;  then  in  less  than  a  mile  it 
had  crossed  the  line  again,  turning  south ;  for  some  time  it 
ran  seawards,  parallel  with  the  Kent  Ditch,  then  suddenly 
went  off  at  right  angles  and  ran  straight  to  the  throws  where 
the  Woolpack  Inn  watches  the  roads  to  Lydd  and  Apple- 
dore. 

On  a  dim  afternoon  towards  the  middle  of  October  in  the 
year  1897,  a  funeral  procession  was  turning  off  this  road 
into  the  drive  of  little  Ansdore.  The  drive  was  thick  with 
shingle,  and  the  mourning  coaches  lurched  and  rolled  in 
it,  spoiling  no  doubt  the  decorum  of  their  occupants.  Any- 
how, the  first  two  to  get  out  at  the  farmhouse  door  had  lost 
a  little  of  that  dignity  proper  to  funerals.  A  fine  young 
woman  of  about  twenty-three,  dressed  handsomely  but 
without  much  fashion  in  black  crape  and  silk,  jumped  out 
with  a  violence  that  sent  her  over-plumed  black  hat  to  a 
rakish  angle.  In  one  black  kid-gloved  hand  she  grasped  a 
handkerchief  with  a  huge  black  border,  in  the  other  a 
Prayer-Book,  so  could  not  give  any  help  to  the  little  girl  of 
ten  who  stumbled  out  after  her,  with  the  result  that  the  child 
fell  flat  on  the  doorstep  and  cut  her  chin.  She  immediately 
began  to  cry. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  5 

"Now  be  quiet,  Ellen,"  said  the  elder  roughly  but  not 
unkindly,  as  she  helped  her  up,  and  stuffing  the  black-bor- 
dered handkerchief  into  her  pocket,  took  out  the  everyday 
one  which  she  kept  for  use.  "There,  wipe  your  eyes,  and  be 
a  stout  gal.     Don't  let  all  the  company  see  you  crying." 

The  last  injunction  evidently  impressed  Ellen,  for  she 
stopped  at  once.  Her  sister  had  wiped  the  grit  and  the 
little  smear  of  blood  off  her  chin,  and  stood  in  the  doorway 
holding  her  hand  while  one  by  one  the  other  carriages  drew 
up  and  the  occupants  alighted.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  till 
they  had  all  assembled,  then  the  young  woman  said :  "Please 
come  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  and  turning  on  her  heel  led 
the  way  to  the  dining-room. 

"Joanna,"  said  little  Ellen  in  a  loud  whisper,  "may  I 
take  off  my  hat?" 

"No,  that  you  mayn't." 

"But  the  elastic's  so  tight — it's  cutting  my  chin.  Why 
mayn't  I?" 

"You  can't  till  the  funeral's  over." 

"It  is  over.  They've  put  Father  in  the  ground." 

"It  isn't  over  till  we've  had  tea,  and  you  keep  your  hat 
on  till  it's  over." 

For  answer  Ellen  tore  off  her  pork-pie  hat  and  threw  it 
on  the  floor.  Immediately  Joanna  had  boxed  her  unpro- 
tected ears,  anrl  the  head  of  the  procession  was  involved 
in  an  ignominious  scuffle.  "You  pick  up  that  hat  and  put  it 
on,"  said  Joanna,  "or  you  shan't  have  any  nice  tea." 
"You're  a  beast !  You're  a  brute,"  cried  Ellen,  weeping 
loudly.  Behind  them  stood  rows  of  respectable  marsh- 
dwellers,  gazing  solemnly  ahead  as  if  the  funeral  service 
were  still  in  progress.  In  their  hearts  they  were  thinking 
that  it  was  just  like  Joanna  Godden  to  have  a  terrification 
like  this  when  folk  were  expected  to  be  serious.  In  the  end, 
Joanna  picked  u\>  Ellen's  hat,  crammed  it  down  rulhlessly 
on  her  head,  hind  part  before,  and  heaving  her  up  under 
her  arm  carried  her  into  the  dining-room.  The  rest  of  the 
company  followed,  and  were  ushered  into  their  places  to 


6  JOANNA    GODDEN 

the  accompaniment  of  Ellen's  shrieks,  which  they  pretended 
not  to  hear. 

"Mr.  Pratt,  will  you  take  the  end  of  the  table,"  said  Jo- 
anna to  the  scared  little  clergyman,  who  would  almost  have 
preferred  to  sit  under  it  rather  than  receive  the  honour 
which  Miss  Godden's  respect  for  his  cloth  dictated.  "Mr. 
Huxtable,  will  you  sit  by  me?"  Having  thus  settled  her 
aristocracy  she  turned  to  her  equals  and  allotted  places  to 
Vine  of  Birdskitchen,  Furnese  of  Misleham,  Southland  of 
Yoke's  Court,  and  their  wives.  "Arthur  Alee,  you  take  my 
left,"  and  a  tall  young  man  with  red  hair,  red  whiskers,  and 
a  face  covered  with  freckles  and  tan,  came  sidling  to  her 
elbow. 

In  front  of  Joanna  a  servant-girl  had  just  set  down  a  huge 
black  teapot,  which  had  been  stewing  on  the  hob  ever  since 
the  funeral  party  had  been  sighted  crossing  the  railway  line 
half  a  mile  ofiF.  Round  it  were  two  concentric  rings  of  tea- 
cups— good  old  Worcester  china,  except  for  a  common  three 
which  had  been  added  for  numbers'  sake,  and  which  Jo- 
anna carefully  bestowed  upon  herself,  Ellen  and  Arthur 
Alee.  Ellen  had  stopped  crying  at  the  sight  of  the  cakes 
and  jam  and  pots  of  "relish"  which  stretched  down  the 
table  in  orderly  lines,  so  the  meal  proceeded  according  to 
the  decent  conventions  of  silence.  Nobody  spoke,  except  to 
offer  some  eatable  to  somebody  else.  Joanna  saw  that  no 
cup  or  plate  was  empty.  She  ought  really  to  have  delegated 
this  duty  to  another,  being  presumably  too  closely  wrapped 
in  grief  to  think  of  anybody's  appetite  but  her  own,  but 
Joanna  never  delegated  anything,  and  her  "a  little  more 
tea,  Mrs.  Vine?" — "another  of  these  cakes,  Mr.  Huxtable?" 
— "just  a  little  dash  of  relish,  Mr.  Pratt?"  were  constantly 
breaking  the  stillness,  and  calling  attention  to  her  as  she  sat 
behind  the  teapot,  with  her  plumed  hat  still  a  little  on  one 
side. 

She  was  emphatically  what  men  call  a  "fine  woman," 
with  her  firm,  white  neck,  her  broad  shoulders,  her  deep 
bosom  and  strong  waist;  she  was  tall,  too,  with  large,  useful 


I 


JOANNA    GODDEN  7 

hands  and  feet.  Her  face  was  brown  and  slightly  freckled, 
with  a  warm  colour  on  the  cheeks ;  the  features  were  strong, 
but  any  impression  of  heaviness  was  at  once  dispelled  by  a 
pair  of  eager,  living  blue  eyes.  Big  jet  earrings  dangled 
from  her  ears,  being  matched  by  the  double  chain  of  beads 
that  hung  over  her  crape-frilled  bodice.  Indeed,  with  her 
plumes,  her  earrings,  her  necklace,  her  frills,  though  all 
were  of  the  decent  and  respectable  bl..ck,  she  faintly  shocked 
the  opinion  of  Walland  Marsh,  otherwise  disposed  in  pity 
to  be  lenient  to  Joanna  Godden  and  her  ways. 

Owing  to  the  absence  of  conversation,  tea  was  not  as  long 
drawn-out  as  might  have  been  expected  from  the  appetites. 
Besides,  everyone  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  finished  and  hear 
the  reading  of  old  Thomas  Godden's  will.  Already  several 
interesting  rumours  were  afloat,  notably  one  that  he  had 
left  Ansdore  to  Joanna  only  on  condition  that  she  married 
Arthur  Alee  within  the  year.  "She's  a  mare  that's  never 
been  priiaperly  broken  in,  and  she  wants  a  strong  hand  to 
do  it."  Thus  unchoicely  Furnese  of  Misleham  had  ex- 
pressed the  wish  that  fathered  such  a  thought. 

So  at  the  first  possible  moment  after  the  last  munch  and 
loud  swallow  with  which  old  Grandfather  Vine,  who  was 
unfortunately  the  slowest  as  well  as  the  largest  eater,  an- 
nounced repletion,  all  the  chairs  were  pushed  back  on  the 
drugget  and  a  row  of  properly  impassive  faces  confronted 
Mr.  Huxtable,  the  lawyer,  as  he  took  his  stand  by  the  win- 
dow. Only  Joanna  remained  sitting  at  the  table,  her  warm 
blue  eyes  seeming  to  reflect  the  evening's  light,  her  arm 
round  little  Ellen,  who  leaned  against  her  lap. 

The  will  was,  after  all,  not  so  sensational  as  had  been 
hoped.  It  opened  piously,  as  might  have  been  expected  of 
Thomas  Godden,  who  was  as  goofl  an  old  man  as  ever  met 
death  walking  in  a  cornfitld  tiiiafraid.  It  went  on  to  leave 
various  small  tokens  of  rcmcm])rance  to  those  who  had 
known  him — a  mourning  ring  to  Mr.  Vine,  Mr.  Furnese  and 
Mr.  Southland  ;  his  two  volumes  of  Robertson's  Sermons, 
and  a  book  called  "The  Horse  in  Sickness  and  in  Health" 


8  JOANNA    GODDEN 

to  Arthur  Alee,  which  was  a  disappointment  to  those  who 
had  expected  the  bequest  to  be  his  daughter  Joanna.  There 
was  fifty  pounds  for  Mr.  Samuel  Huxtable  of  Huxtable, 
Vidler  and  Huxtable,  Solicitors,  Watchbell  Street,  Rye ;  five 
pounds  each  for  those  farm  hands  in  his  employment  at 
the  time  of  his  death,  with  an  extra  ten  pounds  to  "Nathan 
Stuppeny,  my  carter,  on  account  of  his  faithful  services 
both  to  me  and  to  my  father.  And  I  give,  devi"se  and  be- 
queath the  residue  of  my  property,  comprising  the  freehold 
farm  of  Little  Ansdore,  in  the  parish  of  Pedlinge,  Sussex, 
with  all  lands  and  live  and  dead  stock  pertaining  thereto 
to  my  daughter  Joanna  Mary  Godden.  And  I  appoint  the 
said  Joanna  Mary  Godden  sole  executrix  of  this  my  will." 

When  the  reading  was  over  the  company  remained  star- 
ing for  a  minute  as  decency  required,  then  the  door  burst 
open  and  a  big  servant-girl  brought  in  a  tray  set  with  glasses 
of  whiskey  and  water  for  the  men  and  spiced  wine  for  the 
women.  These  drink  offerings  were  received  with  a  sub- 
dued hum  of  conversation — it  was  impossible  to  hear  what 
was  said  or  even  to  distinguish  who  was  saying  it,  but  a 
vague  buzzing  filled  the  room,  as  of  imprisoned  bees.  In 
the  midst  of  it  Ellen's  voice  rose  suddenly  strident. 

"Joanna,  may  I  take  off  my  hat  now?" 

Her  sister  looked  doubtful.  The  funeral  was  not  cere- 
monially complete  till  Grandfather  Vine  had  done  choking 
over  his  heel-taps,  but  Ellen  had  undoubtedly  endured  a 
good  deal  with  remarkable  patience — her  virtue  ought  in 
justice  to  be  rewarded.  Also  Joanna  noticed  for  the  first 
time  that  she  was  looking  grotesque  as  well  as  uncomfort- 
able, owing  perhaps  to  the  hat  being  still  on  hind  part  be- 
fore. So  the  necessary  dispensation  was  granted,  and  Ellen 
further  refreshed  by  a  sip  of  her  sister's  wine. 

The  guests  now  took  their  departure,  each  being  given  a 
memorial  card  of  the  deceased,  with  a  fine  black  edge  and 
the  picture  of  an  urn  upon  it.  Ellen  also  was  given  one,  at 
ner  urgent  request,  and  ran  off  in  huge  excitement  with  the 


JOANNA    GODDEN  9 

treasure.     Joanna  remained  with  Mr.  Huxtable  for  a  final 
interview. 

§2 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  expect  you'll  want  me  to  help  you  a 
bit,  Miss  Joanna." 

Joanna  had  sat  down  again  at  the  end  of  the  table — big, 
tousled,  overdressed,  alive.  Huxtable  surveyed  her  ap- 
provingly. "A  damn  fine  woman,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"she'll  marry  before  long." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Huxtable,"  said 
Joanna,  "there's  many  a  little  thing  I'd  like  to  talk  over 
with  you." 

"Well,  now's  your  time,  young  lady.  I  shan't  have  to  be 
home  for  an  hour  or  two  yet.  The  first  thing  is,  I  suppose, 
for  me  to  find  you  a  bailiff  for  this  farm." 

"No,  thank  you  kindly.     I'll  manage  that." 

"What!    Do  you  know  of  a  man?" 

"No — I  mean  I'll  manage  the  farm." 

"You !    My  dear  Miss  Joanna  .  .  ." 

"Well,  why  not?  I've  been  bred  up  to  it  from  a  child.  I 
used  to  do  everything  with  poor  Father." 

As  she  said  the  last  word  her  brightness  became  for  a 
moment  dimmed,  and  tears  swam  into  her  eyes  for  the  first 
time  since  she  had  taken  the  ceremonial  handkerchief  away 
from  them.     But  the  next  minute  she  lighted  up  again. 

"He  showed  me  a  lot — he  showed  me  everything.  I  could 
do  it  much  better  than  a  man  who  doesn't  know  our  ways." 

"But — "  the  lawyer  hesitated,  "but  it  isn't  just  a  question 
of  knowledge.  Miss  Joanna ;  it's  a  question  of — how  shall 
I  put  it? — well,  of  authority.  A  woman  is  always  at  a  dis- 
advantage when  she  has  to  command  men." 

"I'd  like  to  see  the  man  I  couldn't  make  mind  me." 

Huxtable  grinned.  "Oh,  I've  no  doubt  whatever  that  you 
could  get  yourself  obeyed;  but  the  position — the  whole 
thing — you'd  find  it  a  great  strain,  and  people  aren't,  as  a 


10  JOANNA    GODDEN 

rule,  particularly  helpful  to  a  woman  they  see  doing  what 
they  call  a  man's  job." 

"I  don't  want  anyone's  help.  I  know  my  own  business 
and  my  poor  father's  ways.     That's  enough  for  me." 

"Did  your  father  ever  say  anything  to  you  about  this?" 

"Oh,  no — he  being  only  fifty-one  and  never  thinking  he'd 
be  took  for  a  long  while  yet.  But  I  know  it's  what  he'd 
have  wanted,  or  why  did  he  trouble  to  show  me  everything? 
And  always  talked  to  me  about  things  as  free  as  he  did  to 
Fuller  and  Stuppeny." 

"He  would  want  you  to  do  the  best  for  yourself — he 
wouldn't  want  you  to  take  up  a  heavy  burden  just  for  his 
sake." 

"Oh,  it  ain't  just  for  his  sake,  it's  for  my  own.  I  don't 
want  a  strange  man  messing  around,  and  Ansdore's  mine 
and  I'm  proud  of  it." 

Huxtable  rubbed  his  large  nose,  from  either  side  of  which 
his  sharp  little  eyes  looked  disapprovingly  at  Joanna.  He 
admired  her,  but  she  maddened  him  by  refusing  to  see  the 
obvious  side  of  her  femininity. 

"Most  young  women  of  your  age  have  other  things  to 
think  of  besides  farming.  There's  your  sister,  and  then — 
don't  tell  me  that  you  won't  soon  be  thinking  of  getting 
married." 

"Well,  and  if  I  do,  it'll  be  time  enough  then  to  settle  about 
the  farm.  As  for  Ellen,  I  don't  see  what  difference  she 
makes,  except  that  I  must  see  to  things  for  her  sake  as  well 
as  mine.  It  wouldn't  help  her  much  if  I  handed  over  this 
place  to  a  man  who'd  muddle  it  all  up  and  maybe  bring  us  to 
the  Auctioneer's.  I've  know  .  .  .  I've  seen  .  ,  .  they  had 
a  bailiff  in  at  Becket's  House  and  he  lost  them  three  fields 
of  lucerne  the  first  season  and  got  the  fluke  into  their  sheep. 
Why,  even  Sir  Harry  Trevor's  taken  to  managing  things 
himself  at  North  Farthing  after  the  way  he  saw  they  were 
going  with  that  old  Lambarde,  and  what  he  can  do  I  can 
do,  seeing  I  wasn't  brought  up  in  a  London  square." 

As  Joanna's  volubility  grew,  her  voice  rose,  not  shrilly  as 


JOANNA    GODDEN  11 

with  most  women,  but  taking  on  a  warm,  hoarse  note — • 
her  words  seemed  to  be  flung  out  hot  as  coals  from  a  fire. 
Mr.  Huxtable  grimaced.  "She's  a  virago,"  he  thought  to 
himself.  He  put  up  his  hand  suavely  to  induce  silence,  but 
the  eruption  went  on. 

"I  know  all  the  men,  too.  They'd  do  for  me  what  they 
wouldn't  do  for  a  stranger.  And  if  they  won't,  I  know  how 
to  settle  'em.  I've  been  bursting  with  ideas  about  farming 
all  my  life.  Poor  Father  said  only  a  week  before  he  was 
taken  'Pity  you  ain't  a  man,  Joanna,  with  some  of  the  no- 
tions you've  got.'  Well,  maybe  it's  a  pity  and  maybe  it 
isn't,  but  what  I've  got  to  do  now  is  to  act  up  proper  and 
manage  what  is  mine,  and  what  you  and  other  folks  have 
got  to  do  is  not  to  meddle  with  me." 

"Come,  come,  my  dear  young  lady,  nobody's  going  to 
meddle  with  you.  You  surely  don't  call  it  'meddling'  for 
your  father's  lawyer,  an  old  man  who's  known  you  all  your 
life,  to  offer  you  a  few  words  of  advice.  You  must  go  your 
own  way,  and  if  it  doesn't  turn  out  as  satisfactorily  as  you 
expect,  you  can  always  change  it." 

"Reckon  I  can,"  said  Joanna,  "but  I  shan't  have  to. 
Won't  you  take  another  whiskey,  Mr.  Huxtable?" 

The  lawyer  accepted.  Joanna  Godden's  temper  might  be 
bad,  but  her  whiskey  was  good.  He  wondered  if  the  one 
would  make  up  for  the  other  to  Arthur  Alee  or  whoever 
had  married  her  by  this  time  next  year. 


Mr.  Huxtable  was  not  alone  in  his  condemnation  of  Jo- 
anna's choice.  The  whole  neighborhocKl  disapproved  of  it. 
The  joint  parishes  of  Brodnyx  and  Pcdiinge  had  made  up 
their  minds  that  Joanna  Godden  would  now  be  compelled  to 
marry  Arthur  Alee  and  settle  down  to  mind  her  own  busi- 
ness instead  of  what  was  obviously  a  man's ;  and  here  she 
was,  still  at  large  and  her  business  more  a  man's  than  ever. 

"She's  a  marc  that's  never  been  priiaperly  broken  in,  and 


12  JOANNA    GODDEN 

she  wants  a  strong  man  to  do  it,"  said  Furnese  at  the  Wool- 
pack.  He  had  repeated  this  celebrated  remark  so  often  that 
it  had  accjuired  ahnost  the  status  of  a  proverb.  For  three 
nights  Joanna  had  been  the  chief  topic  of  conversation  in 
the  Woolpack  bar.  If  Arthur  Alee  appeared,  a  silence 
would  fall  on  the  company,  to  be  broken  at  last  by  some  re- 
mark on  the  price  of  wool  or  the  Rye  United's  last  match. 
Everybody  was  sorry  for  Alee,  everybody  thought  that 
Thomas  Godden  had  treated  him  badly  by  not  making  his 
daughter  marry  him  as  a  condition  of  her  inheritance. 

"Three  times  he's  asked  her,  as  I  know  for  certain,"  said 
Vennal,  the  tenant  of  Beggar's  Bush. 

"No,  it's  four,"  said  Prickett,  Joanna's  neighbour  at  Great 
Ansdore,  "there  was  that  time  coming  back  from  the  Wild 
Beast  Show." 

"I  was  counting  that,"  said  Vennal,  "that  and  the  one  that 
Mr.  Vine's  looker  heard  at  Lydd  market,  and  then  that  time 
in  the  house." 

"How  do  you  know  he  asked  her  in  the  house? — that 
makes  five." 

"I  don't  get  that — once  indoors  and  twice  out,  that's 
three." 

"Well,  anyways,  whether  it's  three  or  four  or  five,  he's 
asked  her  quite  enough.     It's  time  he  had  her  now." 

"He  won't  get  her.  She'll  fly  higher'n  him  now  she's  got 
Ansdore.  She'll  be  after  young  Edward  Huxtable,  or  may- 
be Parson  himself,  him  having  neglected  to  keep  himself 
married." 

"Ha!  Ha!  It  ud  be  valiant  to  see  her  married  to  liddle 
Parson — she'd  forget  herself  and  pick  him  up  under  her 
arm,  same  as  she  picks  up  her  sister.  But  anyways  I  don't 
think  she'll  get  much  by  flying  high.  It's  all  fine  enough 
to  talk  of  her  having  Ansdore,  but  whosumdever  wants 
Ansdore  uU  have  to  take  Joanna  Godden  with  it,  and  it 
isn't  every  man  who'd  care  to  do  that." 

"Surelye.  She's  a  mare  that's  never  bin  praaperly  broken 
in.      D'you   remember   the  time   she   came   prancing   into 


JOANNA   GODDEN  13 

Church  with  a  bustle  stuck  on  behind,  and  everyone  staring 
and  fidgeting  so  as  pore  Mus'  Pratt  lost  his  place  in  the 
Prayers  and  jumped  all  the  way  from  the  Belief  to  the 
Royal  Family?" 

"And  that  time  as  she  hit  Job  Piper  over  the  head  wud 
a  bunch  of  oziers  just  because  he'd  told  her  he  knew  more 
about  thatching  than  she  did." 

"Surelye,  and  knocked  his  hat  off  into  the  dyke,  and  then 
bought  him  a  new  one,  with  a  lining  to  it." 

"And  there  was  that  time  when — " 

Several  more  anecdotes  to  the  point  were  contributed  by 
the  various  patrons  of  the  bar,  before  the  conversation,  hav- 
ing described  a  full  circle,  returned  to  its  original  starting 
point,  and  then  set  off  again  with  its  vitality  apparently  un- 
diminished. It  was  more  than  a  week  before  the  summons 
of  Mr.  Gain  of  Botolph's  Bridge  for  driving  his  gig  without 
a  light  ousted  Joanna  from  her  central  glory  in  the  Wool- 
pack's  discussions. 

At  Ansdore  itself  the  interest  naturally  lasted  longer. 
Joanna's  dependents  whether  in  yard  or  kitchen  were  re- 
sentfully engrossed  in  the  new  conditions. 

"So  Joanna's  going  to  run  our  farm  for  us,  is  she  ?"  said 
the  head  man,  old  Stuppeny,  "that'll  be  valiant,  wud  some 
of  the  notions  she  has.  She'll  have  our  plaace  sold  up  in  a 
twelve-month,  surelye.  Well,  well,  it's  time  maybe  as  I 
went  elsewheres — I've  bin  long  enough  at  this  job." 

Old  Stuppeny  had  made  this  remark  at  intervals  for  the 
last  sixty  years,  indeed  ever  since  the  day  he  had  first  come 
as  a  tow-headed  boy  to  scare  sparrows  from  the  fields  of 
Joanna's  grandfather;  .so  no  one  gave  it  the  attention  that 
should  have  been  its  due.  Other  people  aired  their  griev- 
ances instead. 

"I  woan't  stand  her  meddling  wud  me  and  my  sheep," 
said  Fuller  the  shepherd. 

"It's  her  sheep,  come  to  that,"  said  Martha  Tilden  the 
chickcn-girl. 

Fuller  dealt  her  a  consuming  glance  out  of  eyes  which 


14  JOANNA    GODDEN 

the  long  distances  of  the  marsh  had  made  keen  as  the  sea 
wind. 

"She  doan't  know  nothing  about  sheep,  and  I've  been  a 
looker  after  sheep  since  times  when  you  and  her  was  in 
your  cradles,  so  I  woan't  tiiake  sass  from  neither  of  you." 

"She'll  meddle  wud  you,  Martha,  just  as  she'll  meddle 
wud  the  rest  of  us,"  said  Broadhurst  the  cowman. 

"She's  meddled  wud  me  for  years — I'm  used  to  it.  It's 
you  men  what's  going  to  have  your  time  now.  Ha!  Ha! 
I'll  be  pleased  watching  it." 

Martha's  short,  brightly-coloured  face  seemed  ready  to 
break  in  two  as  she  laughed  with  her  mouth  wide  open. 

"When  she's  had  a  terrification  wud  me  and  said  things 
as  she's  sorry  for,  she'll  give  me  a  gownd  of  hers  or  a  fine 
hat.  Sometimes  I  think  as  I  make  more  out  of  her  tempers 
than  I  do  out  of  my  good  work  what  she  pays  me  wages  for." 

"We^'  if  I  wur  a  decent  maid  I'd  be  ashamed  to  wear  any 
of  her  Outlandish  gowns  or  hats.  The  colours  she  chooses ! 
Sometimes  when  I  see  her  walking  through  a  field  near  the 
lambing  time,  I'm  scared  for  my  ewes,  thinking  they'll  drop 
their  lambs  out  of  fright.  I  can't  help  being  thankful  as 
she's  in  black  now  for  this  season,  though  maybe  I  shudn't 
ought  to  say  it,  seeing  as  we've  lost  a  good  Maaster,  and  one 
as  we'll  all  be  tediously  regretting  in  a  week  or  two  if  we 
aun't  now.  You  take  my  word,  Martha — next  time  she 
gives  you  a  gownd,  you  give  it  back  to  her  and  say  as  you 
don't  wear  such  things,  being  a  respectable  woman.  It 
aun't  right,  starting  you  like  that  on  bad  ways." 

§4 

There  was  only  one  house  in  the  joint  parishes  where  Jo- 
anna had  any  honourable  mention,  and  that  was  North  Far- 
thing House  on  the  other  side  of  the  Kent  Ditch.  Here  lived 
Sir  Harry  Trevor,  the  second  holder  of  a  title  won  in  bank- 
ing enterprises,  and  lately  fallen  to  low  estate.  The  reason 
could  perhaps  be  seen  on  his  good-looking  face,  with  its 


JOANNA    GODDEN  15 

sensual,  humorous  mouth,  roving  eyes,  and  lurking  air  of 
unfulfilled,  undefeated  youth.  The  taverns  of  the  Three 
Marshes  had  combined  to  give  him  a  sensational  past,  and 
further  said  that  his  two  sons  had  forced  him  to  settle  at 
Brodnyx  with  a  view  to  preserving  what  was  left  of  his 
morals  and  their  inheritance.  The  elder  was  in  Holy  Orders, 
and  belonged  to  a  small  community  working  in  the  East 
End  of  London ;  he  seldom  came  to  North  Farthing  House. 
The  younger,  Martin,  who  had  some  indefinite  job  in  the 
City,  was  home  for  a  few  days  that  October.  It  was  to  him 
his  father  said : 

"I  can't  help  admiring  that  girl  Joanna  Godden  for  her 
pluck.  Old  Godden  died  suddenly  two  weeks  ago,  and  now 
she's  given  out  that  she'll  run  the  farm  herself,  instead  of 
putting  in  a  bailiff.  Of  course  the  neighbours  disapproved, 
they've  got  very  strict  notions  round  here  as  to  Woman's 
Sphere  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Godden?    Which  farm's  that?" 

"Little  Ansdore — just  across  the  Ditch,  in  Pedlinge 
parish.    It's  a  big  place,  and  I  like  her  for  taking  it  on." 

"And  for  any  other  reason?" 

"Lord,  no !  She  isn't  at  all  the  sort  of  woman  I  admire — • 
a  great  big  strapping  wench,  the  kind  this  marsh  breeds 
twelve  to  the  acre,  like  the  sheep.  Has  it  ever  struck  you, 
Martin,  that  the  women  on  Romney  Marsh,  in  comparison 
with  the  women  one's  used  to  and  likes,  are  the  same  as  the 
Kent  sheep  in  comparison  with  Southdowns — admirably 
hardy  and  suited  to  the  district  and  all  that,  but  a  bit  tough 
and  coarse-flavoured?" 

"I  see  that  farming  has  already  enlarged  and  refined  your 
stock  of  similes.     I  hope  you  aren't  getting  tired  of  it." 

"No,  not  exactly.  I'm  interested  in  the  jjlace  now  I  man- 
age it  without  that  dolt  Lambarde,  and  Hythc  isn't  too  far 
for  the  phaeton  if  I  want  to  See  Life.  Besides,  I  haven't 
quite  got  over  the  thrill  of  not  being  in  debt  and  disgrace" 
— he  threw  Martin  a  glance  which  might  have  conic  from  a 
rebellious  son  to  a  censorious   father.     "But  sometimes   I 


16  JOANNA    GODDEN 

wish  there  was  less  Moated  Grange  about  it  all.  Damn  it, 
I'm  always  alone  here !  Except  when  you  or  your  reverend 
brother  come  down  to  see  how  I'm  behaving." 

"Why  don't  you  marry  again?" 

"I  don't  want  to  marry.  Besides,  whom  the  devil  should 
I  marry  round  here?  There's  mighty  few  people  of  our 
own  class  about,  and  those  there  are  seem  to  have  no  daugh- 
ters under  forty." 

Martin  looked  at  him  quizzically. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  young  beast — I  know  what  you're  thinking. 
You're  thinking  that  forty's  just  the  right  age  for  me. 
You're  reminding  me  that  I'm  a  trifle  passe  myself  and 
ought  to  marry  something  sere  and  yellow.  But  I  tell  you 
I  don't  feel  any  older  than  twenty-five — never  have,  it's 
my  affliction — while  you've  never  been  younger  than  forty 
in  all  your  life.  It's  you  who  ought  to  marry  middle-age" 
— and  he  grimaced  at  Martin. 

§  5 

Joanna  rather  enjoyed  being  the  centre  of  discussion. 
She  had  none  of  the  modest  shrinking  from  being  talked 
about  which  might  have  affected  some  young  women.  She 
was  glad  when  Martha  Tilden  or  another  of  the  girls 
brought  her  any  overheard  scraps.  "Oh,  that's  what  they 
say,  is  it?"  and  she  would  laugh  a  big  jolly  laugh  like  a 
boy's. 

So  far  she  had  enjoyed  being  "Maaster"  of  Little  Ans- 
dore.  It  meant  a  lot  of  work  and  a  lot  of  thought  and  a 
lot  of  talking  and  interference,  but  Joanna  shrank  from 
none  of  these  things.  She  was  healthy  and  vigorous  and 
intelligent,  and  was,  moreover,  quite  unharr.pered  by  any 
diffidence  about  teaching  their  work  to  people  who  had  been 
busy  at  it  before  she  was  born. 

Still  it  was  scarcely  more  than  a  fortnight  since  she  had 
taken  on  the  government,  and  time  had  probably  much  to 
show  her  yet.    She  had  a  moment  of  depression  one  mom- 


JOANNA    GODDEN  17 

ing,  rising  early  as  she  always  must,  and  pulling  aside  the 
flowered  curtain  that  covered  her  window.  The  prospect 
was  certainly  not  one  to  cheer ;  even  in  sunshine  the  horizons 
of  the  marsh  were  discouraging  with  their  gospel  of  univer- 
sal flatness,  and  this  morning  the  sun  was  not  yet  up,  and 
a  pale  mist  was  drifting  through  the  willows,  thick  and 
congealed  above  the  watercourses,  thinner  on  the  grazing 
lands  between  them,  so  that  one  could  see  the  dim  shapes 
of  the  sheep  moving  through  it.  Even  in  clear  weather 
only  one  other  dwelling  was  visible  from  Little  Ansdore, 
and  that  was  its  fellow  of  Great  Ansdore,  about  half  a 
mile  away  seawards.  The  sight  of  it  never  failed  to  make 
Joanna  contemptuous — for  Great  Ansdore  had  but  fifty 
acres  of  land  compared  with  the  three  hundred  of  its  Little 
neighbour.  Its  Greatness  was  merely  a  matter  of  name  and 
tradition  and  had  only  one  material  aspect  in  the  presenta- 
tion to  the  living  of  Brodnyx-with-Pedlinge,  which  had 
been  with  Great  Ansdore  since  the  passing  of  the  monks 
of  Canterbury. 

Today  Great  Ansdore  was  only  a  patch  of  grey  rather 
denser  than  its  surroundings,  and  failed  to  inspire  Joanna 
with  her  usual  sense  of  gloating.  Her  eyes  were  almost 
sad  as  she  stared  out  at  it,  her  chin  propped  on  her  hands. 
The  window  was  shut,  as  every  window  in  every  farm  and 
cottage  on  the  marsh  was  shut  at  night,  though  the  ague 
was  now  little  more  than  a  name  on  the  lips  of  grand- 
fathers. Therefore,  the  room  in  which  two  people  had 
slept  was  rather  stuffy,  though  this  in  itself  would  hardly 
account  for  Joanna's  heaviness,  since  it  was  what  she  nat- 
urally expected  a  bedroom  to  be  in  the  morning.  Such 
vague  sorrow  was  perplexing  and  disturbing  to  her  prac- 
tical emotions  ;  she  hurriedly  attributed  it  to  "poor  Father," 
and  the  propriety  of  the  sentiment  allowed  her  tbe  relief 
of  a  few  tears 

Turning  back  into  the  room  she  unbuttoned  her  turkey- 
red  dressing-gown.  prc]).-iratory  to  the  business  of  washing 
and  dressing.    Then  her  eye  fell  on  Ellen  still  asleep  in  her 


18  JOANNA    GODDEN 

little  iron  bedstead  in  the  corner,  and  a  glow  of  tenderness 
passed  like  a  lamp  over  her  face.  She  went  across  to  where 
her  sister  slept,  and  laid  her  face  for  a  moment  beside  hers 
on  the  pillow.  Ellen's  breath  came  regularly  from  parted 
lips — she  looked  adorable  cuddled  there,  with  her  red  cheeks, 
like  an  apple  in  snow.  Joanna,  unable  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tion, kissed  her  and  woke  her. 

"Hullo,   Jo — wha'  time  is  it?"  mumbled   Ellen   sleepily. 

"Not  time  to  get  up  yet.     I'm  not  dressed." 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  stooping  over  her  sister, 
and  her  big  rough  plaits  dangled  in  the  child's  face. 

"Hullo,  Jo — Hullo,  old  Jo,"  continued  the  drowsy  mur- 
mur. 

"Go  to  sleep,  you  bad  girl,"  said  Joanna,  forgetting  that 
she  herself  had  roused  her. 

Ellen  was  not  wide  enough  awake  to  have  any  conflicting 
views  on  the  subject,  and  she  nestled  down  again  with  a 
deep  sigh.  For  the  next  ten  minutes  the  room  was  full 
of  small  sounds — the  splashing  of  cold  water  in  the  basin, 
the  shuffle  of  coarse  linen,  the  click  of  fastening  stays,  the 
rhythmic  swish  of  a  hair  brush.  Then  came  two  silent 
minutes,  while  Joanna  knelt  with  closed  eyes  and  folded 
hands  beside  her  big,  tumbled  bed,  and  said  the  prayers 
that  her  mother  had  taught  her  eighteen  years  ago — word 
for  word  as  she  had  said  them  when  she  was  five,  even  to 
the  "make  me  a  good  girl"  at  the  end.  Then  she  jumped 
up  briskly  and  tore  the  sheet  off  the  bed,  throwing  it  with 
the  pillows  on  the  floor,  so  that  Grace  Wickens  the  servant 
should  have  no  chance  of  making  the  bed  without  stripping 
it,  as  was  the  way  of  her  kind. 

Grace  was  not  up  yet,  of  course.  Joanna  hit  her  door  a 
resounding  thump  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way  to  the  kit- 
chen. Here  the  dead  ashes  had  been  raked  out  overnight 
and  the  fire  laid  according  to  custom.  She  lit  the  fire  and 
put  the  kettle  on  to  boil ;  she  did  not  consider  it  beneath 
her  to  perform  these  menial  offices.  She  knew  that  every 
hand  was  needed  for  the  early  morning  work  of  a  farm. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  19 

By  the  time  she  had  finished,  both  Grace  and  Martha  were 
in  the  room,  yawning  and  rubbing  their  eyes. 

"That'll  burn  up  nicely  now,"  said  Joanna,  surveying  the 
fire.  "You'd  better  put  the  fish-kettle  on  too,  in  case  Broad- 
hurst  wants  hot  water  for  a  mash.  Bring  me  out  a  cup  of 
tea  as  soon  as  you  can  get  it  ready — I'll  be  somewhere  in 
the  yard." 

She  put  on  an  old  coat  of  her  father's  over  her  black 
dress,  and  went  out,  her  nailed  boots  clattering  on  the 
cobblestones.  The  men  were  up — they  should  have  been 
up  an  hour  now — but  no  sounds  of  activity  came  from  the 
barns.  The  yard  was  in  stillness,  a  little  mist  floating  against 
the  walls,  and  the  pervading  greyness  of  the  morning  seemed 
to  be  lit  up  by  the  huge  blotches  of  yellow  lichen  that  cov- 
ered the  slated  roofs  of  barns  and  dwelling — the  roofs  were 
all  new ;  having  only  for  a  year  or  two  superseded  the 
old  roofs  of  ozier  thatch,  but  that  queer  golden  rust  had 
almost  hidden  their  substance,  covering  them  as  it  covered 
everything  that  was  left  exposed  to  salt-thick  marsh  air. 

Joanna  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  yard  looking  keenly 
round  her  like  a  cat,  then  like  a  cat  she  pounced.  The 
interior  of  the  latest-built  barn  was  dimly  lit  by  a  couple 
of  windows  under  the  roof — the  light  was  just  enough  to 
show  inside  the  doorway  five  motionless  figures,  seated 
about  on  the  root-pile  and  the  root-slicing  machine.  They 
were  Joanna's  five  farm-men,  apparently  wrapped  in  a 
trance,  from  which  her  voice  unpleasantly  awoke  them, 

"Here,  you — what  d'you  think  you're  doing?" 

The  five  figures  stiffened  with  perceptible  indignation, 
but  they  did  not  rise  from  their  sitting  posture  as  their 
mistress  advanced — or  rather  swooped — into  their  midst. 
Joanna  did  not  expect  this.  She  paid  a  man  fifteen  shillings 
a  week  for  his  labour  and  made  no  impossible  demands  of 
his  prejudices  and  private  habits. 

"I've  been  up  an  hour,"  she  said,  looking  round  on  them, 
"and  here  I  find  all  of  you  sitting  like  a  lot  of  sacks." 


20  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"It's  two  hours  since  I've  bin  out  o'  my  warm  bed,"  said 
old  Stuppeny  reproachfully. 

"You'd  be  as  much  use  in  it  as  out,  if  this  is  how  you 
spend  your  time.  No  one's  been  to  the  pigs  yet,  and  it 
wants  but  half  an  hour  to  milking." 

"We  wur  setting  around  fur  Grace  Wickens  to  bring 
us  out  our  tea,"  said  Broadhurst. 

"You  thought  maybe  she  wouldn't  know  her  way  across 
the  yard  if  you  was  on  the  other  side  of  it?  The  tea  ain't 
ready  yet — I  tell  you  I  haven't  had  any.  It's  a  fine  sight 
to  see  a  lot  of  strong,  upstanding  men  lolling  around  wait- 
ing for  a  cup  of  tea." 

The  scorn  in  Joanna's  voice  was  withering,  and  a  resent- 
ful grumble  arose,  amidst  which  old  Stuppeny's  dedication 
of  himself  to  a  new  sphere  was  hoarsely  discernible.  How- 
ever, the  men  scrambled  to  their  feet  and  tramped  off  in 
various  directions;  Joanna  stopped  Fuller  the  shepherd  as 
he  went  by. 

"You'll  be  taking  the  wethers  to  Lydd  this  morning?" 

"Surelye." 

"How  many  are  you  taking?" 

"Maybe  two  score." 

"You  can  take  the  lot.  It'll  save  us  their  grazing  money 
this  winter,  and  we  can   start   fattening  the  tegs   in  the 

"There's  but  two  score  wethers  fit  for  market." 

"How  d'you  mean?" 

"The  others  aun't  fatted  praaperly." 

"Nonsense — you  know  we  never  give  'em  cake  or  turnips, 
so  what  does  it  matter?" 

"They  aun't  fit." 

"I  tell  you  they'll  do  well  enough.  I  don't  expect  to  get 
such  prices  for  them  as  for  that  lot  you've  kept  down  in 
the  New  Innings,  but  they  won't  fetch  much  under,  for  I 
d'^clare  they're  good  meat.  If  we  keep  them  over  the 
winter,  we'll  have  to  send  them  inland  and  pay  no  end  for 


sprmg- 


JOANNA    GODDEN  21 

their  grazing — and  then  maybe  the  price  of  mutton  ull  go 
down  in  the  Spring." 

"It  ud  be  a  fool's  job  to  taake  them." 

"You  say  that  because  you  don't  want  to  have  to  fetch 
them  up  from  the  Salt  Innings.  I  tell  you  you're  getting 
lazy,  Fuller." 

"My  old  Alaaster  never  called  me  that." 

"Well,  you  work  as  well  for  me  as  you  did  for  him,  and 
I  won't  call  you  lazy,  neither." 

She  gave  him  a  conciliatory  grin,  but  Fuller  had  been 
too  deeply  wounded  for  such  easy  balm.  He  turned  and 
walked  away,  a  w'hole  speech  written  in  the  rebellious  hunch 
of  his  shoulders. 

"You'll  get  them  beasts,"  she  called  after  him. 

"Surelye," — came  in  a  protesting  drawl.  Then  "Yup! 
— Yup  1" — to  the  two  sheep  dogs  couched  on  the  doorstep. 

§6 

What  with  supervising  the  work  and  herding  slackers, 
getting  her  breakfast  and  packing  off  Ellen  to  the  little 
school  she  went  to  at  Rye,  Joanna  found  all  too  soon  that 
the  market  hour  was  upon  her.  It  did  not  strike  her  to 
shirk  this  part  of  a  farmer's  duty — she  would  drive  into 
Rye  and  into  Lydd  and  into  Roniney  as  her  father  had 
always  driven,  inspecting  beasts  and  watching  prices.  Soon 
after  ten  o'clock  she  ran  upstairs  to  make  herself  splendid, 
as  the  occasion  required. 

By  this  time,  the  morning  had  lifted  itself  out  of  the 
mist.  Great  sheets  of  blue  covered  the  sky  and  were  mir- 
rored in  the  dykes — there  was  a  soft  golden  glow  about 
the  marsh,  for  the  vivid  green  of  the  pastures  was  filmed 
over  with  the  brown  of  the  withering  seed-grasses,  and  the 
big  clumps  of  trees  that  protected  every  dwelling  were 
richly  toned  to  rust  through  .scales  of  flame.  Already  there 
were  signs  that  the  day  would  be  hot,  and  Joanna  sighed 
to  think  that  approaching  winter  had  demanded  that  her 


11  JOANNA    GODDEN 

new  best  black  should  be  made  of  thick  materials.  She 
hated  black,  too,  and  grimaced  at  her  sombre  frills,  which 
the  mourning  brooch  and  chain  of  jet  beads  could  only 
embellish,  never  lighten.  But  she  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  jumping  out  of  the  window  as  of  discarding 
her  mourning  a  day  before  the  traditions  of  the  Marsh 
decreed.  She  decided  not  to  wear  her  brooch  and  chain — 
the  chain  might  swing  and  catch  in  the  beasts'  horns  as  she 
inspected  them,  besides  her  values  demanded  that  she 
should  be  slightly  more  splendid  in  church  than  at  market, 
so  her  ornaments  were  reserved  as  a  crowning  decoration, 
all  except  her  mourning  ring  made  of  a  lock  of  her  father's 
hair. 

It  w^as  the  first  time  she  had  been  to  market  since  his 
death,  and  she  knew  that  folks  would  stare,  so  she  might 
as  well  give  them  something  to  stare  at.  Outside  the  front 
door,  in  the  drive,  old  Stuppeny  was  holding  the  head  of 
Foxy  her  mare,  harnessed  to  the  neat  trap  that  Thomas 
Godden  had  bought  early  the  same  year. 

"Hullo,  Stuppeny — you  ain't  coming  along  like  that  !'* 
and  Joanna's  eye  swept  fiercely  up  and  down  his  manure- 
caked  trousers. 

"I  never  knew  as  I  wur  coming  along  anywheres.  Missus." 

"You're  coming  along  of  me  to  the  market.  Surely  you 
don't  expect  a  lady  to  drive  by  herself?" 

Old  Stuppeny  muttered  something  unintelligible. 

"You  go  and  put  on  your  black  coat,"  continued  Joanna. 

"My  Sunday  coat !"  shrieked  Stuppeny. 

"Yes — quick !     I  can't  wait  here  all  day." 

"But  I  can't  put  on  my  good  coat  wudout  cleaning  my- 
self, and  it'll  taake  me  the  best  part  o'  the  marnun  to  do 
that." 

Joanna  saw  the  reasonableness  of  his  objection. 

"Oh,  well,  you  can  leave  it  this  once,  but  another  time 
you  remember  and  look  decent.  Today  it'll  do  if  you  go 
into  the  kitchen  and  ask  Grace  to  take  a  brush  to  your 
trousers — and   listen   here  1"    she   called    after   him   as   he 


JOANNA   GODDEN  23 

shambled  off — "if  she's  making  cocoa  you  can  ask  her  to 
give  you  a  cup." 

Grace  evidently  was  making  cocoa — a  habit  she  had 
whenever  her  mistress's  back  was  turned — for  Stuppeny 
did  not  return  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  He  looked 
slightly  more  presentable  as  he  climbed  into  the  back  of  the 
trap.  It  struck  Joanna  that  she  might  be  able  to  get  him 
a  suit  of  livery  second-hand. 

"There  isn't  much  he's  good  for  at  the  farm  now  at  his 
age,  so  he  may  as  well  be  the  one  to  come  along  of  me. 
Broadhurst  or  Luck  ud  look  a  bit  smarter,  but  it  ud  be  hard 
to  spare  them.  ,  .  .  Stuppeny  ud  look  different  in  a  livery 
coat  with  brass  buttons  .  .  .  I'll  look  around  for  one  if 
I've  time  this  afternoon." 

It  was  nearly  seven  miles  from  Ansdore  to  Lydd.  passing 
the  Woolpack,  and  the  ragged  gable  of  Midley  Chapel — a 
reproachful  ruin  among  the  reeds  of  the  Wheelsgate  Sewer. 
Foxy  went  smartly,  but  every  now  and  then  they  had  to 
slow  down  as  they  overtook  and  passed  flocks  of  sheep  and 
cattle  being  herded  along  the  road  by  drovers  and  shepherds 
in  dusty  boots  and  dogs  with  red,  lolling  tongues.  It  was 
after  midday  when  the  big  elm  wood  which  had  been  their 
horizon  for  the  last  two  miles  suddenly  turned,  as  if  by 
an  enchanter's  wand,  into  a  fair-sized  down  of  red  roofs 
and  walls,  with  a  great  church  tower  raking  above  the 
trees. 

Joanna  drove  straight  to  the  Crown,  where  Thomas  God- 
den  had  "put  up"  every  market  day  for  twenty  years.  She 
ordered  her  dinner — boiled  beef  and  carrots  and  jam  roll 
— and  walked  into  the  crowded  coffee-room,  where  farmers 
from  every  corner  of  the  three  marshes  were  already  at 
work  with  knife  and  fcjrk.  Some  of  them  knew  her  by 
sight  and  stared,  others  knew  her  by  acquaintance  and 
greeted  her.  while  Arthur  Alee  jumped  out  of  his  chair, 
clroj)ping  his  knife  and  sweeping  his  neighbour's  bread  off 
the  table.  He  was  a  little  shocked  and  alarmed  to  see 
Joanna  the  only  woman  in  the  room;  he  suggested  that  she 


24  JOANNA    GODDEN 

should  have  her  dinner  in  the  landlady's  parlour — "you'd 
be  quieter  like,  in  there." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  quiet,  thank  you,"  said  Joanna. 

She  felt  thankful  that  none  of  the  few  empty  chairs  was 
next  Aloe's — she  could  never  abide  his  fussing.  She  sat 
down  between  Cobb  of  Slinches  and  a  farmer  from  Snar- 
gate  way,  and  opened  the  conversation  pleasantly  on  the 
subject  of  liver-fluke  in  sheep. 

When  she  had  brought  her  meal  to  a  close  with  a  cup  of 
tea,  she  found  Alee  waiting  for  her  in  the  hotel  entrance. 

"I  never  thought  you'd  come  to  market,  Joanna." 

"And  why  not,  pray?" 

The  correct  answer  was — "because  you  don't  know 
enough  about  beasts,"  but  Alee  had  the  sense  to  find  a 
substitute. 

"Because  it  ain't  safe  or  seemly  for  a  woman  to  come 
alone  and  deal  with  men." 

"And  why  not,  again  ?  Are  all  you  men  going  to  swindle 
me  if  you  get  the  chance?" 

Joanna's  laugh  always  had  a  disintegrating  effect  on 
Alee,  with  its  loud  warm  tones  and  its  revelation  of  her 
pretty  teeth — which  were  so  white  and  even,  except  for 
the  small  pointed  canines.  When  she  laughed  she  opened 
her  mouth  wide  and  threw  back  her  head  on  her  short  white 
neck.  Alee  gropingly  put  out  a  hairy  hand  towards  her, 
which  was  his  nearest  approach  to  a  caress.  Joanna  flicked 
it  away. 

"Now  a-done  do,  Arthur  Alee" — dropping  in  her  merri- 
ment into  the  lower  idiom  of  the  marsh — "a-done  do  with 
your  croaking  and  your  stroking  both.  Let  me  go  my  own 
ways,  for  I  know  'em  better  than  you  can." 

"But  these  chaps — I  don't  like  it — maybe,  seeing  you  like 
this  amongst  them,  they'll  get  bold  with  you." 

"Not  they!  How  can  you  mention  such  a  thing?  There 
was  Mr.  Cobb  and  Mr.  Bates  at  dinner,  talking  to  me  as 
respectful  as  church  wardens,  all  about  liver  fluke,  and  then 
by  way  of  rot  in  the  oats,  passing  on  natural  and  civil  to 


JOANNA    GODDEN  25 

the  Isle  of  Wight  disease  in  potatoes — if  you  see  anything 
bold  in  that  .  .  .  well  then  you're  an  old  woman  as  sure 
as  I  ain't." 

A  repetition  of  her  laugh  completed  his  disruption,  and 
he  found  himself  there  on  the  steps  of  the  Crown  begging 
her  to  let  him  take  over  her  market-day  discussions  as  her 
husband  and  deputy. 

"Why  should  you  go  talking  to  farmers  about  Isle  of 
Wight  disease  and  liver  fluke,  when  you  might  be  talking 
to  their  wives  about  making  puddings  and  stuffing  mat- 
tresses and  such-like  women's  subjects." 

"I  talk  about  them  too,"  said  Joanna,  "and  I  can't  see 
as  I'd  be  any  better  for  talking  of  nothing  else." 

What  Alee  had  meant  to  convey  to  her  was  that  he  would 
much  rather  hear  her  discussing  the  ailments  of  her  chil- 
dren than  of  her  potatoes,  but  he  was  far  too  delicate- 
minded  to  state  this.     He  only  looked  at  her  sadly. 

Joanna  had  not  even  troubled  to  refuse  his  proposal — 
any  more  than  a  mother  troubles  to  give  a  definite  and 
reasoned  refusal  to  the  child  who  asks  for  the  moon.  Find- 
ing him  silent,  and  feeling  rather  sorry  for  him,  she  sug- 
gested that  he  should  come  round  with  her  to  the  shops  and 
carry  some  of  her  parcels. 

§7 

She  went  first  of  all  to  a  firm  of  housepainters,  for  she 
meant  to  brighten  up  Ansdore.  She  disliked  seeing  tiie 
place  with  no  colour  or  oniauK-nt  save  that  which  the  marsh 
wind  gave  it  of  gold  and  rust.  She  would  have  the  eaves 
and  the  pipes  painted  a  nice  green — such  as  would  show 
up  well  at  a  distance.  There  was  plenty  of  money,  so  why 
should  everything  be  drab?  Alee  discouraged  her  as  well 
as  he  was  able — it  was  the  wrong  time  of  year  for  paint- 
ing, and  the  old  paint  was  still  quite  good.  Joanna  treated 
his  objections  as  she  had  treated  his  proposal — with 
good-humoured,  almost  tender,  indifference.     She  let  him 


26  JOANNA    GODDEN 

make  his  moan  at  the  housepainters',  then  carelessly  bore 
him  on  to  the  furnishers',  where  she  bought  brightly- 
flowered  stuff  for  new  curtains.  Then  he  stood  by  while 
at  an  outfitter's  she  inspected  coats  for  Stuppeny,  and 
finally  bought  one  of  a  fine  mulberry  colour  "with  brass 
buttons  all  down  the  front." 

She  now  returned  to  the  market-place,  and  sought  out 
two  farmers  from  the  Iden  district,  with  whom  she  made 
arrangements  for  the  winter  keep  of  her  lambs.  Owing 
to  the  scanty  and  salt  pastures  of  winter,  it  had  always 
been  the  custom  on  the  marsh  to  send  the  young  sheep  for 
grazing  on  upland  farms,  and  fetch  them  back  in  the  spring 
as  tegs.  Joanna  disposed  of  her  young  flock  between  Relf 
of  Baron's  Grange  and  Noakes  of  Mockbeggar,  then,  still 
accompanied  by  Alee,  strolled  down  to  inspect  the  wethers 
she  had  brought  to  the  market. 

On  her  way  she  met  the  farmer  of  Picknye  Bush. 

"Good  day,  Miss  Godden — I've  just  come  from  buying 
some  tegs  of  yourn." 

"My  looker's  settled  with  you,  has  he?" 

"He  said  he  had  the  power  to  sell  as  he  thought  proper 
— otherways  I  was  going  to  ask  for  you." 

An  angry  flush  drowned  the  freckles  on  Joanna's  cheek. 

"That's  Fuller,  the  obstinate,  thick-headed  old  man  .  .  ." 

Bates'  round  face  fell  a  little. 

"I'm  sorry  if  there's  bin  any  mistaake.  After  all,  I  aun't 
got  the  beasts  yet — two  pound  a  head  is  the  price  he  asked 
and  I  paid.  I  call  it  a  fair  price,  seeing  the  time  of  year 
and  the  state  of  the  meat  market.  But  if  your  looker's  bin 
presuming  and  you  aun't  pleased,  then  I  woan't  call  it  a 
deal." 

"I'm  pleased  enough  to  sell  you  my  beasts,  and  two 
pounds  is  a  fairish  price.  But  I  won't  have  Fuller  fixing 
things  up  over  my  head  like  this,  and  I'll  tell  him  so.  How 
many  of  'em  did  you  buy,  Mr.  Bates?" 

"I  bought  the  lot — two  score." 

Joanna  made  a  choking  sound.     Without  another  word, 


JOANNA   GODDEN  27 

she  turned  and  walked  off  in  the  direction  of  the  hurdles 
where  her  sheep  were  penned,  Bates  and  Alee  following 
her  after  one  disconcerted  look  at  each  other.  Fuller  stood 
beside  the  wethers,  his  two  shaggy  dogs  couched  at  his 
feet — he  started  when  he  suddenly  saw  his  mistress  burst 
through  the  crowd,  her  black  feathers  nodding  above  her 
angry  face. 

"Fuller!"    she   shouted,    so   loud   that   those   who   were 
standing  near  turned  round  to  see — "How  many  wether- 
tegs  have  you  brought  to  Lydd?" 
Iwo  score. 

"How  many  did  I  tell  you  to  bring?" 

"The  others  wurn't  fit,  surelye." 

"But  didn't  I  tell  you  to  bring  them?" 

"You  did,  but  they  wurn't  fit." 

"I  said  you  were  to  bring  them,  no  matter  if  you  thought 
em  fit  or  not." 

"They  wurn't  fit  to  be  sold  as  meat." 

"I  tell  you  they  were." 

"No  one  shall  say  as  Tom  Fuller  doan't  bring  fit  meat  to 
market." 

"You're  an  obstinate  old  fool.  I  tell  you  they  were  first- 
class  meat." 

Men  were  pressing  round,  farmers  and  graziers  and 
butchers,  drawn  by  the  spectacle  of  Joanna  Goddcn  at  war 
with  her  looker  in  the  middle  of  Lydd  market.  Alee  touched 
her  arm  appeal ingly — 

"Come  away,  Joanna."  he  murmured. 

She  flung  round  at  him. 

"Keep  clear — leave  me  to  settle  my  own  man." 

There  was  a  titter  in  the  crowd. 

"I  know  bad  meat  from  good,  surelye,"  continued  Fuller, 
feeling  that  popular  sentiment  was  on  his  side — "T  should 
ought  to,  seeing  as  I  wtir  yiir  father's  looker  before  you 
wur  your  father's  daughter." 

"You  were  my  father's  looker,  but  after  this  you  shan't 
be  looker  of  mine.     Since  you  won't  mind  what  I  say  or 


28  JOANNA    GODDEN 

take  orders  from  me,  you  can  leave  my  service  this  day 
month." 

There  was  a  horror-stricken  silence  in  the  crowd — even 
the  lowest  journeyman  butcher  realised  the  solemnity  of 
the  occasion. 

"You  understand  me?"  said  Joanna. 

"Yes,  Ma'am,"  came  from  Fuller  in  a  crushed  voice. 

§8 

By  the  same  evening  the  news  was  all  over  Lydd  market, 
by  the  next  it  was  all  over  the  Three  Marshes.  Everyone 
was  repeating  to  everyone  else  how  Joanna  Godden  of 
Little  Ansdore  had  got  shut  of  her  looker  after  twenty- 
eight  years'  service,  and  her  father  not  been  dead  a  month. 

"Enough  to  make  him  rise  out  of  his  grave,"  said  the 
Marsh. 

The  actual  reasons  for  the  turning  away  were  variously 
given — 

"Just  because  he  spuck  up  and  told  her  as  her  pore  father 
wudn't  hold  wud  her  goings  on,"  was  the  doctrine  promul- 
gated by  the  Woolpack ;  but  the  general  council  sitting  in 
the  bar  of  the  Crown  decreed  that  the  trouble  had  arisen 
out  of  Fuller's  spirited  refusal  to  sell  some  lambs  that  had 
tic.  Other  pronouncements  were  that  she  had  sassed  Fuller 
because  he  knew  more  about  sheep  than  she  did — or  that 
Fuller  had  sassed  her  for  the  same  reason — that  it  wasn't 
Joanna  who  had  dismissed  him,  but  he  who  had  been  regret- 
fully obliged  to  give  notice,  owing  to  her  meddling — that 
all  the  hands  at  Ansdore  were  leaving  on  account  of  her 
temper. 

"He'll  never  get  another  plaace  agaun,  will  pore  old 
Fuller — he'll  end  in  the  Union  and  be  an  everlasting  shame 
to  her." 

There  was  almost  a  feeling  of  disappointment  when  it 
became  known  that  Fuller — who  was  only  forty-two,  hav- 
ing started  his  career  at  an  early  age — had  been  given  a 


JOANNA   GODDEN  29 

most  satisfactory  job  at  Arpinge  Farm  inland,  and  some- 
thing like  consternation  when  it  was  further  said  and  con- 
firmed by  Fuller  himself  that  Joanna  had  given  him  an 
excellent  character. 

"She'll  never  get  another  looker,"  became  the  changed 
burden  of  the  marsh. 

But  here  again  prophecy  failed,  for  hardly  had  Joanna's 
advertisement  appeared  simultaneously  in  the  Rye  Observer 
and  the  Kentish  Express  than  she  had  half  a  dozen  appli- 
cations from  likely  men.  Martha  Tilden  brought  the  news 
to  Gasson's  Stores,  the  general  shop  in  Brodnyx. 

"There  she  is,  setting  in  her  chair,  talking  to  a  young 
chap  what's  come  from  Botolph's  Bridge,  and  there's  three 
more  waiting  in  the  passage — she  told  Grace  to  give  them 
each  a  cup  of  cocoa  when  she  was  making  it.  And  what 
d'you  think?  Their  looker's  come  over  from  Old  Honey- 
child,  asking  for  the  place,  though  he  was  sitting  in  the 
Crown  at  Lydd  only  yesterday,  as  Sam  Broadhurst  told 
me,  saying  as  it  was  a  shame  to  get  shut  of  Fuller  like  that, 
and  as  how  Joanna  deserved  never  to  see  another  looker 
again  in  her  life." 

"Which  of  the  lot  d'you  think  she'll  take?"  asked  Gasson. 

"I  dunno.  How  should  I  say?  Peter  Relf  from  Old 
Honeychild  is  a  stout  feller,  and  one  of  the  other  men  told 
me  he'd  got  a  character  that  made  him  blush,  it  was  that 
fine  and  flowery.  But  you  never  know  with  Joanna  God- 
den — maybe  she'd  sooner  have  a  looker  as  knew  nothing, 
and  then  she  could  teach  him.     Ha!     Ha!" 

Meanwhile  Joanna  sat  very  erect  in  her  kitchen  chair, 
interviewing  the   young  chap  from   Botoljih's   Bridge. 

"You've  only  got  a  year's  character  from  Mr.  Gain?" 

"Yes,  Missus  ..."  a  long  pause  during  which  some 
mental  process  took  place  clumsily  behind  his  low,  sun- 
burnt  forehead  .  .  .  "but  I've  got  these." 

He  hanfled  Joanna  one  or  two  dirty  scraps  of  paper  on 
which  were  written  "characters"  from  earlier  employers. 


30  JOANNA    GODDEN 

Joanna  read  them.  None  was  for  longer  than  two  years, 
but  they  all  spoke  well  of  the  young  man  before  her. 

"Then  you've  never  been  on  the  Marsh  before  you  came 
to  Botolph's  Bridge?" 

"No,  Missus." 

"Sheep  on  the  Marsh  is  very  different  from  sheep  inland." 

"I  know,  Missus." 

"But  you  think  you're  up  to  the  job?" 

"Yes,  Missus." 

Joanna  stared  at  him  critically.  He  was  a  fine  young 
fellow — slightly  bowed  already  though  he  had  given  his 
age  as  twenty-five,  for  the  earth  begins  her  work  early  in 
a  man's  frame,  and  has  power  over  the  green  tree  as  well 
as  the  dry.  But  this  stoop  did  not  conceal  his  height  and 
strength  and  breadth,  and  somehow  his  bigness,  combined 
with  his  simplicity,  his  slow  thought  and  slow  tongue,  ap- 
pealed to  Joanna,  stirred  something  within  her  that  was 
almost  tender.    She  handed  him  back  his  dirty  "characters." 

"Well,  I  must  think  it  over.  I've  some  other  men  to  see, 
but  I'll  write  you  a  line  to  Botolph's  Bridge  and  tell  you 
how  I  fix.  You  go  now  and  ask  Grace  Wickens,  my  gal, 
to  give  you  a  cup  of  hot  cocoa." 

Young  Socknersh  went,  stooping  his  shock-head  still 
lower  as  he  passed  under  the  worn  oak  lintel  of  the  kitchen 
door.  Joanna  interviewed  the  shepherd  from  Honeychild, 
a  man  from  Slinches,  another  from  Anvil  Green  inland, 
and  one  from  Chilleye,  on  Pevensey  marsh  beyond  Marlin- 
gate.  She  settled  with  none,  but  told  each  that  she  would 
write.     She  spent  the  evening  thinking  them  over. 

No  doubt  Peter  Relf  from  Honeychild  was  the  best  man 
— the  oldest  and  most  experienced — but  on  the  other  hand 
he  wanted  the  most  money,  and  probably  also  his  own  way, 
after  the  disastrous  precedent  of  Fuller.  Joanna  wasn't 
going  to  have  another  looker  who  thought  he  knew  better 
than  she  did.  Now,  Dick  Socknersh,  he  would  mind  her 
properly,  she  felt  sure.  .  .  .  Day  from  Slinches  had  the 
longest  "character" — fifteen  years  man  and  boy;  but  that 


JOANNA   GODDEN  31 

would  only  mean  that  he  was  set  in  their  ways  and  wouldn't 
take  to  hers — she  wasn't  going  to  start  fattening  her  sheep 
with  turnips,  coarsening  the  meat,  not  to  please  anyone. 
.  .  .  Now,  Socknersh,  having  never  been  longer  than  two 
years  in  a  place  wouldn't  have  got  fixed  in  any  bad  habits. 
...  As  for  Jenkins  and  Taylor,  they  weren't  any  good — 
just  common  Southdown  men — she  might  as  well  write  off 
to  them  at  once.  Her  choice  lay  between  Relf  and  Day  and 
Socknersh.  She  knew  that  she  meant  to  have  Socknersh — 
he  was  not  the  best  shepherd,  but  she  liked  him  the  best, 
and  he  would  mind  her  properly  and  take  to  her  ways 
.  .  .  for  a  moment  he  seemed  to  stand  before  her,  with 
his  head  stooping  among  the  rafters,  his  great  shoulders 
shutting  out  the  window,  his  curious,  brown,  childlike  eyes 
fixed  upon  her  face.  Day  was  a  scrubby  little  fellow,  and 
Relf  had  warts  all  over  his  hand.  .  .  .  But  she  wasn't 
choosing  Socknersh  for  his  looks;  she  was  choosing  him 
because  he  would  work  for  her  the  best,  not  being  set  up 
with  "notions."  Of  course,  she  liked  him  the  best,  too, 
but  it  would  be  more  satisfactory  from  every  practical  point 
of  view  to  work  with  a  man  she  liked  than  with  a  man 
she  did  not  like — Joanna  liked  a  man  to  look  a  man,  and 
she  did  not  mind  if  he  was  a  bit  of  a  child  too.  .  .  .  Yes, 
she  would  engage  Socknersh ;  his  "characters,"  though 
short,  were  most  satisfactory — he  was  "good  with  sheep 
and  lambs,"  she  could  remember — "hard-working" — "pa- 
tient." .  .  .  She  wrote  to  Botolph's  Bridge  that  evening, 
and  engaged  him  to  come  to  her  at  the  end  of  the  week. 


§  9 

Nothing  happened  to  make  her  regret  her  choice.  Sock- 
nersh proved,  as  she  had  expected,  a  huml)le,  hard-working 
creature,  who  never  disputed  her  orders,  inflccd  who  some- 
times turned  to  her  for  direction  and  advice.  Stimulated 
by  his  deference,  she  became  even  more  of  an  oracle  than 


32  JOANNA    GODDEN 

she  had  hitherto  professed.  She  looked  up  "The  Sheep" 
in  her  father's  Farmer's  Encyclopaedia  of  the  year  1861, 
and  also  read  one  or  two  more  books  upon  his  shelves. 
From  these  she  discovered  that  there  was  more  in  sheep- 
breeding  than  was  covered  by  the  lore  of  the  Three 
Marshes,  and  her  mind  began  to  plunge  adventurously 
among  Southdowns  and  Leicesters,  Black-faced,  Blue- 
faced,  and  Cumberland  sheep.  She  saw  Ansdore  famous 
as  a  great  sheep-breeding  centre,  with  many  thousands  of 
pounds  coming  annually  to  its  mistress  from  meat  and 
wool. 

She  confided  some  of  these  ideas  to  Arthur  Alee  and  a 
few  neighbouring  farmers.  One  and  all  discouraged  her, 
and  she  told  herself  angrily  that  the  yeomen  were  jealous 
— as  for  Alee,  it  was  just  his  usual  silliness.  She  found 
that  she  had  a  more  appreciative  listener  in  Dick  Socknersh. 
He  received  all  her  plans  with  deep  respect,  and  sometimes 
an  admiring  "Surelye,  Missus,"  would  come  from  his  lips 
that  parted  more  readily  for  food  than  for  speech.  Joanna 
found  that  she  enjoyed  seeking  him  out  in  the  barn,  or 
turning  off  the  road  to  where  he  stood  leaning  against  his 
crook  with  his  dog  against  his  legs.  .  .  . 

"You'd  never  believe  the  lot  there  is  in  sheep-keeping, 
Socknersh ;  and  the  wonders  you  can  do  if  you  have  knowl- 
edge and  information.  Now  the  folks  around  here,  they're 
middling  sensible,  but  they  ain't  what  you'd  call  clever. 
They're  stuck  in  their  ways,  as  you  might  say.  Now  if  you 
open  your  mind  properly,  you  can  learn  a  lot  of  things  out 
of  books.  My  poor  father  had  some  wonderful  books  upon 
his  shelves  that  are  mine  to  read  now,  and  you'd  be  sur- 
prised at  the  lot  I've  learned  out  of  'em,  even  though  I've 
been  sheep-raising  all  my  life." 

"Surelye.  Missus." 

"Now  I'll  tell  you  something  about  sheep-raising  that 
has  never  been  done  here  all  the  hundreds  of  years  there's 
been  sheep  on  the  Marsh.  And  that's  the  proper  crossing 
of  sheep.     My  book  tells  me  that  there's  been  useful  new 


JOANNA    GODDEN  33 

breeds  started  that  way  and  lots  of  money  made.  Now, 
would  you  believe  it,  they've  never  tried  crossing  down 
here  on  the  Marsh,  except  just  once  or  twice  with  South- 
downs? — And  that's  silly,  seeing  as  the  Southdown  is  a 
smaller  sheep  than  ours,  and  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  bring- 
ing down  our  fine  big  sheep  that  can  stand  all  waters  and 
weathers.  If  I  was  to  cross  'em,  I'd  sooner  cross  'em  with 
rams  bigger  than  themselves.  I  know  they  say  that  small 
joints  of  mutton  are  all  the  style  nowadays,  but  I  like  a 
fine  big  animal — besides,  think  of  the  fleeces." 

Socknersh  apparently  thought  of  them  so  profoundly  that 
he  was  choked  of  utterance,  but  Joanna  could  tell  that  he 
was  going  to  speak  by  the  restless  moving  of  his  eyes  under 
their  strangely  long  dark  lashes  and  by  the  little  husky 
sounds  he  made  in  his  throat.  She  stood  watching  him 
with  a  smile  on  her  face. 

"Well,  Socknersh — you  were  going  to  say  ..." 

"I  wur  going  to  say,  Missus,  as  my  maaster  up  at  Garlinge 
Green,  whur  I  wur  afore  I  took  to  the  marsh  at  Botolph's 
Bridge — my  maaster,  Mus'  Pebsham,  had  a  valiant  set  of 
Spanish  ship  as  big  as  liddle  cattle ;  you  shud  ought  to 
have  seen  them." 

"Did  he  do  any  crossing  with  'cm?" 

"No,  Missus — leastways  not  whiles  I  wur  up  at  the 
Green." 

Joanna  stared  through  the  thick  red  sunset  to  the  hori:^on. 
Marvellous  plans  were  forming  in  her  head — part,  they 
seemed,  of  the  fiery  shapes  that  the  clouds  had  raised  in  the 
west  beyond  Rye  hill.  Those  clouds  walked  forth  as  flocks 
of  shecf) — huge  sheep  under  mountainous  fleeces,  the  won- 
der of  the  Marsh  and  the  glory  of  Ansdore.  .  .  . 

"Socknersh  ..." 

"Yes,  Missu.s." 

She  hesitated  whether  she  should  share  with  him  her 
new  inspiration.  It  would  be  good  to  hear  him  say  "Sure- 
lye,  Missus"  in  that  admiring  husky  voice.  He  was  the 
only  one  of  her  farm-hands  who,  she  felt,  had  any  defer- 


34  JOANNA    GODDEN 

ence  towards  her — any  real  loyalty,  though  he  was  the  last 
come. 

"Socknersh,  d'you  think  your  Master  up  at  Garlinge 
would  let  me  hire  one  or  two  rams  to  cross  with  my  ewes? 
— I  might  go  up  and  have  a  look  at  'em.  I  don't  know  as 
I've  ever  seen  a  Spanish  sheep.  .  .  .  Garlinge  is  up  by 
Court-at-Street,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  Missus.     'Tis  an  unaccountable  way  from  here." 

"I'd  write  first.  What  d'you  think  of  the  notion,  Sock- 
nersh?  Don't  you  think  that  a  cross  between  a  Spanish 
sheep  and  a  Kent  sheep  ud  be  an  uncommon  fine  animal?" 

"Surelye,  Missus." 

That  night  Joanna  dreamed  that  giant  sheep  as  big  as 
bullocks  were  being  herded  on  the  Marsh  by  a  giant  shep- 
herd. 

§  10 

Spring  brought  a  blooming  to  Ansdore  as  well  as  to  the 
Marsh.  Joanna  had  postponed,  after  all,  her  house-paint- 
ing till  the  winter  months  of  rotting  sea  mists  were  over. 
But  in  April  the  ladders  striped  her  house-front,  and  soon 
her  windows  and  doors  began  to  start  luridly  out  of  their 
surroundings  of  mellowed  tiles  and  brick.  After  much 
deliberation  she  had  chosen  yellow  for  her  colour,  taste- 
fully picked  out  with  green.  She  had  always  been  partial 
to  yellow — it  was  a  colour  that  "showed  up"  well,  and  she 
was  also  influenced  by  the  fact  that  there  was  no  other 
yellow-piped  dwelling  on  the  marsh. 

Her  neighbours  disapproved  of  her  choice  for  the  same 
reasons  that  had  induced  her  to  make  it.  They  were 
shocked  by  the  fact  that  you  could  see  her  front  door  from 
half  a  mile  ofif  on  the  Brodnyx  Road ;  it  was  just  like 
Joanna  Godden  to  choose  a  colour  that  shrieked  across  the 
landscape  instead  of  merging  itself  unobtrusively  into  it. 
But  there  was  a  still  worse  shock  in  store  for  public  opinion, 
and  that  was  when  she  decided  to  repaint  her  waggons  as 
well  as  her  house. 


JOANNA   GODDEN  35 

Hitherto  there  had  been  only  one  shape  and  colour  of 
waggon  on  the  marsh — a  plain  low-sided  trough  of  deep 
sea-blue.  The  name  was  always  painted  in  white  on  a 
small  black  wooden  square  attached  to  the  side.  Thomas 
Godden's  waggons  had  been  no  departure  from  this  rule. 
It  was  left  to  his  daughter  to  flout  tradition  and,  by  some 
obscure  process  of  local  reasoning,  bring  discredit  to  her 
dead  father,  by  painting  her  waggons  yellow  instead  of 
blue.  The  evil  went  deeper  than  mere  colour.  Joanna 
was  a  travelled  woman,  having  once  been  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  and  it  suddenly  struck  her  that,  since  she  was  re- 
painting, she  might  give  her  three  waggons  the  high  gondola- 
shaped  fronts  that  she  had  admired  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Shanklin  and  Ventnor.  These  she  further  beautified  with 
a  rich,  scrolled  design,  and  her  name  in  large,  ornate  let- 
tering— "Joanna  Godden.  Little  Ansdore.  Walland 
Marsh" — so  that  her  waggons  went  forth  upon  the  roads 
very  much  as  the  old  men  o'  war  of  King  Edward's  fleet 
had  sailed  over  that  same  country  when  it  was  fathoms 
deep  under  the  seas  of  Rye  Bay.  .  .  .  With  their  towering, 
decorated  poops  they  were  more  like  mad  galleys  of  a  bye- 
gone  age  than  sober  waggons  of  a  nineteenth  century  farm. 

Her  improvements  gave  her  a  sense  of  adventurous  satis- 
faction— her  house  with  its  yellow  windows  and  doors, 
with  its  new  curtains  of  swaggering  design — her  high 
pooped  waggons — the  coat  with  the  brass  buttons  that  old 
Stuppeny  wore  when  he  drove  behind  her  to  market — her 
dreams  of  giant  sheep  upon  her  innings — all  appealed  to 
something  fundamental  in  her  which  was  big  and  boastful. 
She  even  liked  the  gossip  with  which  she  was  surrounded, 
the  looks  that  were  turned  ujion  her  when  she  drove  into 
Rye  or  Lydd  or  New  Romney — the  "there  goes  Joanna 
Godden"  of  folk  she  passed.  She  had  no  acute  sense  of 
their  disapproval ;  if  she  became  aware  of  it  she  would 
only  repeat  to  herself  that  she  would  "show  'em  the  style" 
— which  she  certainly  did. 


36  JOANNA   GODDEN 

§  11 

Arthur  Alee  was  very  much  upset  by  the  gossip  about 
Joanna. 

"All  you've  done  since  you  started  running  Ansdore  is 
to  get  yourself  talked  about,"  he  said  sadly. 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  that." 

"No,  but  you  should  ought  to.  A  woman  should  ought 
to  be  modest  and  timid  and  not  paint  her  house  so's  it 
shows  up  five  mile  off — first  your  house,  and  then  your 
waggons — it'll  be  your  face  next." 

"Arthur  Alee,  you're  very  rude,  and  till  you  learn  to  be 
civil  you  can  keep  out  of  my  house — the  same  as  you  can 
see  five  mile  off." 

Alee,  who  really  felt  bitter  and  miserable,  took  her  at 
her  word  and  kept  away  for  nearly  a  fortnight.  Joanna 
was  not  sorry,  for  he  had  been  highly  disapproving  on  the 
matter  of  the  Spanish  sheep,  and  she  was  anxious  to  carry 
out  her  plan  in  his  absence.  A  letter  to  Garlinge  Green 
had  revealed  the  fact  that  Socknersh's  late  master  had  re- 
moved to  a  farm  near  Northampton ;  he  still  bred  Spanish 
sheep  but  the  risk  of  Joanna's  venture  was  increased  by 
the  high  price  she  would  have  to  pay  for  railway  transport 
as  well  as  in  fees.  However,  once  she  had  set  her  heart 
on  anything,  she  would  let  nothing  stand  in  her  way.  vSock- 
nersh  was  inclined  to  be  aghast  at  all  the  money  the  affair 
would  cost,  but  Joanna  soon  talked  him  into  an  agreeable 
"Surelye." 

"We'll  get  it  all  back,"  she  told  him.  "Our  lambs  ull 
be  the  biggest  at  market,  and  ull  fetch  the  biggest  prices 
too." 

It  pleased  Joanna  to  talk  of  Socknersh  and  herself  as 
"we,"  though  she  would  bitterly  have  resented  an  idea  of 
joint  responsibility  in  the  days  of  Fuller.  The  rites  of 
lambing  and  shearing  had  not  dimmed  her  faith  in  the  High 
Priest  she  had  chosen  for  Ansdore's  most  sacred  mysteries 
Socknersh  was  a  man  who  was  automatically  "good  with 


JOANNA    GODDEN  37 

sheep."  The  scared  and  trembling  ewes  seemed  to  see  in 
him  a  kind  of  affinity  with  themselves,  and  lay  still  under 
his  big,  brown,  quiet  hands.  He  had  not  much  "head," 
but  he  had  that  queer  inward  kinship  with  animals  which 
is  sometimes  found  in  intensely  simple  natures,  and  Joanna 
felt  equal  to  managing  the  "head"  part  of  the  business  for 
both.  It  pleased  her  to  think  that  the  looker — who  is  always 
the  principal  man  on  a  farm  such  as  Ansdore,  where  sheep- 
rearing  is  the  main  business — deferred  to  her  openly,  before 
the  other  hands,  spoke  to  her  with  drawling  respect,  and 
for  ever  followed  her  with  his  humble  eyes. 

She  liked  to  feel  those  eyes  upon  her.  All  his  strength 
and  bigness,  all  his  manhood,  huge  and  unaware,  seemed 
to  lie  deep  in  them  like  a  monster  coiled  up  under  the  sea. 
When  he  looked  at  her,  he  seemed  to  lose  that  heavy 
dumbness,  that  inarticulate  stupidity  which  occasionally 
stirred  and  vexed  even  her  good  disposition ;  his  mouth 
might  still  be  shut,  but  his  eyes  were  fluent — they  told  her 
not  only  of  his  manhood  but  of  her  womanhood  besides. 

Socknersh  lived  alone  in  the  looker's  cottage  which  had 
always  belonged  to  Ansdore.  It  stood  away  on  the  Kent 
Innings,  on  the  very  brink  of  the  Ditch  which  here  gave 
a  great  loop  to  allow  a  peninsula  of  Sussex  to  claim  its 
rights  against  the  Kentish  monks.  It  was  a  lonely  little 
cottage,  all  rusted  over  with  lichen,  and  sometimes  Joanna 
felt  sorry  for  Socknersh  away  there  by  himself  beside  the 
Ditch.  She  sent  him  over  a  flock  mattress  and  a  woollen 
blanket  in  case  the  old  ague-spectre  of  the  marsh  still 
haunted  that  desolate  corner  of  water  and  reeds. 

§  12 

Towards  the  end  of  tliat  Autumn,  Joanna  and  Ellen 
Godden  came  out  of  their  mourning.  As  was  usual  on  such 
occasions,  they  chose  a  Sunday  for  their  first  appearance 
in  colours.  Half  mourning  was  not  worn  on  the  Marsh, 
so  there  was  no  interval  of  grey  and  violet  between  Joanna's 


38  JOANNA    GODDEN 

hearse-like  costume  of  crape  and  nodding  feathers  and  the 
tan-coloured  gown  in  which  she  astonished  the  twin  parishes 
of  Brodnyx  and  Pedlinge  on  the  first  Sunday  in  November. 
Her  hat  was  of  sage  green  and  contained  a  bird  unknown  to 
natural  history.  From  her  ears  swung  huge  jade  earrings, 
in  succession  to  the  jet  ones  that  had  dangled  against  her 
neck  on  Sundays  for  a  year — she  must  have  bought  them, 
for  everyone  knew  that  her  mother,  Anne  Godden,  had  left 
but  one  pair. 

Altogether  the  sight  of  Joanna  was  so  breathless  that 
a  great  many  people  never  noticed  Ellen  or  at  best  only 
saw  her  hat  as  it  went  past  the  tops  of  their  pews.  Joanna 
realised  this,  and  being  anxious  that  no  one  should  miss 
the  sight  of  Ellen's  new  magenta  pelisse  with  facings  of 
silver  braid,  she  made  her  stand  on  the  seat  while  the 
psalms  were  sung. 

The  service  was  in  Brodnyx  church  in  the  morning — in 
the  evening  it  would  be  at  Pedlinge.  Brodnyx  had  so  far 
escaped  the  restorer,  and  the  pews  were  huge  wooden  boxes, 
sometimes  fitted  with  a  table  in  the  middle,  while  Sir  Harry 
Trevor's,  which  he  never  occupied,  except  when  his  sons 
were  at  home,  was  further  provided  with  a  stove — all  the 
heating  there  was  in  the  three  aisles.  There  was  also  a 
two-decker  pulpit  at  the  east  end  and  over  the  dim  little 
altar  hung  an  escutcheon  of  Royal  George — the  lion  and 
the  unicorn  fighting  for  the  crown  amid  much  scroll-work. 

Like  most  churches  on  the  marsh  it  was  much  too  big 
for  its  parish,  and  if  the  entire  population  of  Brodnyx  and 
Pedlinge  had  crowded  into  it,  it  would  not  have  been  full. 
This  made  Joanna  and  Ellen  all  the  more  conspicuous — 
they  w^re  alone  in  their  great  horse-box  of  a  pew,  except 
for  many  prayer-books  and  hassocks — there  were  as  many 
hassocks  in  Brodnyx  church  as  there  were  sheep  on  the 
Brodnyx  innings.  Joanna,  as  usual,  behaved  very  devoutly 
and  did  not  look  about  her.  She  had  an  immense  respect 
for  the  Church,  and  always  followed  the  service  word  for 


JOANNA    GODDEN  39 

word  in  her  huge  calf -bound  Prayer-book,  expecting  Ellen 
to  do  the  same — an  expectation  which  involved  an  immense 
amount  of  scuffling  and  angry  whispers  in  their  pew. 

However,  though  her  eyes  were  on  her  book,  she  was 
proudly  conscious  that  everyone  else's  eyes  were  on  her. 
Even  the  Rector  must  have  seen  her — as  indeed  from  his 
elevated  position  on  the  bottom  deck  of  the  pulpit  he  could 
scarcely  help  doing — and  his  distraction  was  marked  by 
occasional  stutters  and  the  intrusion  of  an  evening  Collect. 
He  was  a  nervous,  deprecating  little  man,  terribly  scared 
of  his  flock,  and  ruefully  conscious  of  his  own  shortcomings 
and  the  shortcomings  of  his  church.  Visiting  priests  had 
told  him  that  Brodnyx  church  was  a  disgrace,  with  its 
false  stresses  of  pew  and  pulpit  and  the  lion  and  the  unicorn 
dancing  above  the  throne  of  the  King  of  kings — they  said 
he  ought  to  have  it  restored.  They  did  not  trouble  about 
where  the  money  was  to  come  from,  but  Mr.  Pratt  knew 
he  could  not  get  it  out  of  his  congregation,  who  did  not 
like  to  have  things  changed  from  the  manner  of  their 
fathers — indeed  there  had  been  complaints  when  he  had 
dislodged  the  owls  that  had  nested  under  the  gallery  from 
an  immemorial  rector's  day. 

The  service  came  to  an  end  with  the  singing  of  a  hymn 
to  an  accompaniment  of  grunts  and  wheezes  from  an 
ancient  harmonium  and  the  dropping  of  pennies  and  three- 
penny bits  into  a  wooden  plate.  Then  the  congregation 
hurried  out  to  the  civilities  of  the  churchyard. 

From  outside  Brodnyx  church  looked  even  more  Georgian 
and  abandoned.  Its  three  aisles  were  without  ornament 
or  architecture;  there  was  no  tower,  but  beside  it  stood  a 
peculiar  and  unexplained  erection,  shaped  like  a  pagoda, 
in  three  tiers  of  black  and  battered  tar-boarding.  It  had 
a  slight  cant  towards  the  church,  and  suggested  nothing  so 
much  as  a  disreputable  Victorian  widow,  in  tippet,  mantle 
and  crinoline,  seeking  the  support  of  a  stone  wall  after  a 
carouse. 

In  the  churchyard,  among  the  graves  the  congregation 


40  JOANNA    GODDEN 

assembled  and  talked  of  or  to  Joanna.  It  was  noticeable 
that  the  women  judged  her  more  kindly  than  the  men. 

"She  can't  help  her  taste,"  said  Mrs.  Vine,  "and  she's  a 
kind-hearted  thing." 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Mrs.  Prickett,  "her  taste  ain't  so 
bad  if  only  she'd  have  things  a  bit  quieter.  But  she's  like 
a  child  with  her  yallers  and  greens." 

"She's  more  like  an  organist's  monkey,"  said  her  hus- 
band. "What  ud  I  do  if  I  ever  saw  you  tricked  out  like 
that,  Mrs.  Prickett?" 

"Oh,  I'd  never  wear  such  clothes,  Master,  as  you  know 
well.  But  then  I'm  a  different  looking  sort  of  woman.  I 
wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  them  bright  colours  don't  suit 
Joanna  Godden." 

"I  never  thought  much  of  her  looks." 

"Nor  of  her  looker — he  1  he  1"  joined  in  Furnese  with  a 
glance  in  Joanna's  direction. 

She  was  talking  to  Dick  Socknersh,  who  had  been  to 
church  with  the  other  hands  that  could  be  spared  from 
the  farm.  She  asked  him  if  he  had  liked  the  sermon,  and 
then  told  him  to  get  off  home  quickly  and  give  the  tegs 
their  swill. 

"Reckon  he  don't  know  a  teg  from  a  tup,"  said  Furnese. 

"Oh,  surel>^,  Mr.  Furnese,  he  aun't  a  bad  looker.  Jim 
Harmer  said  he  wur  justabout  wonderful  with  the  ewes 
at  the  shearing." 

"Maybe — but  he'd  three  sway-backed  lambs  at  Rye  mar- 
ket on  Thursday." 

"Sway-backs !" 

"Three.     'Twas  a  shame." 

"But  Joanna  told  me  he  was  such  a  fine,  wonderful  man 
with  the  sheep — as  he'd  got  'em  to  market  about  half  as 
tired  and  twice  as  quick  as  Fuller  used  to  in  his  day." 

"Ah,  but  then  she's  unaccountable  set  on  young  Sock- 
nersh. He  lets  her  do  what  she  likes  with  her  sheep,  and 
he's  a  stout  figure  of  a  man,  too.  Joanna  Godden  always 
was  partial  to  stout-looking  men." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  41 

"But  she'd  never  be  such  a  fool  as  to  get  sweet  on  her 
looker." 

"Well,  that's  wot  they're  saying  at  the  Woolpack." 

"The  Woolpack !  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  talk-hole 
as  you  men  get  into  when  you're  away  from  us !  They  say 
some  unaccountable  fine  things  at  the  Woolpack.  I  tell 
you,  Joanna  ain't  such  a  fool  as  to  get  sweet  on  Dick  Sock- 
nersh." 

"She's  been  fool  enough  to  cross  Spanish  sheep  with  her 
own.  Three  rams  she  had  sent  all  the  way  from  furrin 
parts  by  Northampton.  I  tell  you,  after  that,  she'd  be  fool 
enough  for  anything." 

"Maybe  she'll  do  well  by  it." 

"Maybe  she'll  do  well  by  marrying  Dick  Socknersh.  I 
tell  you,  you  doan't  know  naun  about  it,  Missus.  Who- 
sumdever  heard  of  such  an  outlandish,  heathen,  foolish 
notion?"  .  .  . 

On  the  whole  Joanna  was  delighted  with  the  success  of 
her  appearance.  She  walked  home  with  Mrs.  Southland 
and  Maggie  Furnese,  bridling  a  little  under  their  glances, 
while  she  discussed  servants,  and  food-prices,  and  a  new 
way  of  pickling  eggs. 

She  parted  from  them  at  Ansdore,  and  she  and  Ellen 
went  in  to  their  Sunday's  dinner  of  roast  beef  and  York- 
shire pudding.  After  this  the  day  would  proceed  according 
to  the  well-laid  ceremonial  that  Joanna  loved.  Little  Ellen, 
with  a  pinafore  tied  over  her  Sabbath  splendours,  would 
go  into  the  kitchen  to  sit  with  the  maids — get  into  their 
laps,  turn  over  their  picture  Bibles,  examine  their  one  or 
two  trinkets  and  strings  of  beads  which  they  always  brou.c;ht 
into  the  kitchen  on  Sunday.  Meanwhile  Joanna  would  sit 
in  state  in  the  parlour,  her  feet  on  a  footstool,  on  her  lap 
a  volume  of  Spurgeon's  sermons.  In  the  old  days  it  had 
always  been  her  father  who  read  sermons,  but  now  he  was 
dead  she  had  taken  over  this  part  of  his  duties  with  the  rest, 
and  if  the  afternoon  generally  ended  in  sleep,  sleep  was  a 
necessary  part  of  a  well-kept  Sabbath  day. 


42  JOANNA   GODDEN 

§  13 

When  Christmas  came  that  year,  Joanna  was  inspired 
to  celebrate  it  with  a  party.  The  Christmas  before  she 
had  been  in  mourning,  but  in  her  father's  day  it  had  been 
usual  to  invite  a  few  respectable  farmers  to  a  respectable 
revel,  beginning  with  high  tea,  then  proceeding  through 
whist  to  a  hot  supper.  Joanna  would  have  failed  in  her 
duty  to  "poor  Father"  if  she  had  not  maintained  this  cus- 
tom, and  she  would  have  failed  in  consistency  to  herself  if 
she  had  not  improved  upon  it — embellished  it  with  one  or 
two  ornate  touches,  which  lifted  it  out  of  its  prosaic  rut  of 
similarity  to  a  dozen  entertainments  given  at  a  dozen  farms, 
and  made  it  a  rather  wonderful  and  terrible  occasion  to 
most  dwellers  on  the  marsh. 

To  begin  with,  the  invitations  were  not  delivered,  accord- 
ing to  custom,  verbally  in  the  churchyard  after  Morning 
Prayer  on  Sunday — they  were  written  on  cards,  as  Mrs. 
Saville  of  Dungemarsh  Court  wrote  them,  and  distributed 
through  the  unwonted  and  expensive  medium  of  the  post. 
When  their  recipients  had  done  exclaiming  over  the  \vaste 
of  a  penny  stamp,  they  were  further  astonished  to  see  the 
word  "Music"  written  in  the  corner — Joanna  had  stuck 
very  closely  to  her  Dungemarsh  Court  model.  What  could 
the  music  be?  Was  the  Brodnyx  Brass  Band  going  to 
play?  Or  had  Joanna  hired  Miss  Patty  Southland,  who 
gave  music  lessons  on  the  marsh? 

She  had  done  neither  of  these  things.  When  her  visitors 
assembled,  stuffed  into  her  two  parlours,  while  the  eatables 
were  spread  in  a  kitchen  metamorphosed  with  decorations 
of  crinkled  paper,  they  found,  buttressed  into  a  corner  by 
the  freshly  tuned  piano,  the  Rye  Quartet,  consisting  of  the 
piano-tuner  himself,  his  wife  who  played  the  'cello,  and 
his  two  daughters  with  fiddles  and  white  pique  frocks.  At 
first  the  music  was  rather  an  embarrassment,  for  while  it 
played  eating  and  conversation  were  alike  suspended,  and 
the  guests  stood  with  open  mouths  and  cooling  cups  of  tea 


JOANNA    GODDEN  43 

till  Mr.  Pliimmer's  final  chords  released  their  tongues  and 
filled  their  mouths  with  awkward  simultaneousness.  How- 
ever, after  a  time  the  general  awe  abated,  and  soon  the 
R}  e  Quartet  was  swamped  in  a  terrific  noise  of  tongues  and 
mastication. 

Everyone  was  staring  at  Joanna's  dress,  for  it  was  Low 
— quite  four  inches  of  her  skin  must  have  shown  between 
its  topmost  frill  and  the  base  of  her  sturdy  throat.  The 
sleeves  stopped  short  at  the  elbow,  showing  a  very  soft, 
white  forearm,  in  contrast  with  brown,  roughened  hands. 
Altogether  it  was  a  daring  display,  and  one  or  two  of  the 
Miss  Vines  and  Southlands  and  Fumeses  wondered  "how 
Joanna  could  do  it." 

Proudly  conscious  of  the  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  she  moved 
— or  rather,  it  must  be  confessed,  squeezed — about  among 
her  guests.  She  had  put  on  new  manners  with  her  new 
clothes,  and  was  full  of  a  rather  mincing  civility. 

"Pray,  Mrs.  Cobb,  may  I  get  you  another  cup  of  tea?" — 
"Just  one  more  piece  of  cake,  Mr.  Alee?" — "Oh,  please, 
Miss  Prickett — just  a  leetle  bit  of  ham." 

Ellen  followed  her  sister  about,  pulling  at  her  skirt.  She 
was  dressed  in  white,  and  her  hair  was  crimped,  and  tied 
with  pink  ribbons.  At  eight  o'clock  she  was  ordered  up 
to  bed,  and  there  was  a  great  uproar,  before,  striking  out 
in  all  directions,  she  was  carried  upstairs  under  Joanna's 
stalwart  arm.  The  Rye  Quartet  tactfully  started  playing 
to  drown  her  screams,  which  continued  for  some  time  in 
the  room  overhead. 

The  party  did  not  break  up  till  eleven,  having  spent  five 
hours  standing  squeezed  like  herrings  under  tiic  Ansdore 
beams,  eating  and  drinking  and  talking,  to  the  strains  of 
"The  Blue  Danube"  and  "See  Me  Dance  the  Polka."  Local 
opinion  was  a  little  bewildered  by  the  entertainment — it 
had  been  splendid,  no  doubt,  anrl  high  class  to  an  over- 
whelming degree,  but  it  had  been  distinctly  uncomfortable, 
even  tiresome,  and  a  great  many  people  were  uj^set  by  eat- 
ing too  much,  since  the  refreshments  had  been  served  untir- 


44  JOANNA   GODDEN 

ingly  from  six  to  eleven,  while  otliers  had  not  had  enough, 
being  nervous  of  eating  their  food  so  far  from  a  table,  and 
clinging  throughout  the  evening  to  their  first  helpings. 

To  Joanna,  however,  the  evening  was  an  uncriticised 
success,  and  she  was  inspired  to  repeat  it  on  a  humbler 
scale  for  the  benefit  of  her  servants.  She  knew  that  at 
big  houses  there  was  often  a  servants'  ball  at  Christmas, 
and  though  she  had  no  definite  ambition  to  push  herself 
into  the  Manor  class,  she  was  anxious  that  Ansdore  should 
have  every  pomp  and  that  things  should  be  "done  proper." 
The  mere  solid  comfort  of  prosperity  was  not  enough 
for  her — she  wanted  the  glitter  and  glamour  of  it  as  well, 
she  wanted  her  neighbours  not  only  to  realise  it  but  to 
exclaim  about  it. 

Thus  inspired  she  asked  Prickett,  Vine,  Furnese  and 
other  yeomen  and  tenants  of  the  Marsh  to  send  their  hands, 
men  and  maids,  to  Ansdore,  for  dancing  and  supper  on 
New  Year's  Eve.  She  found  this  celebration  even  more 
thrilling  than  the  earlier  one.  Somehow  these  humbler 
preparations  filled  more  of  her  time  and  thought  than  when 
she  had  prepared  to  entertain  her  peers.  She  would  not 
wear  her  Low  Dress,  of  course,  but  she  would  have  her 
pink  one  "done  up" — a  fall  of  lace  and  some  beads  sewn 
on,  for  she  must  look  her  best.  She  saw  herself  opening 
the  ball  with  Dick  Socknersh,  her  hand  in  his,  his  clumsy 
arm  round  her  waist.  ...  Of  course  old  Stuppeny  was 
technically  the  head  man  at  Ansdore,  but  he  was  too  old 
to  dance — she  would  see  he  had  plenty  to  eat  and  drink 
instead — she  would  take  the  floor  with  Dick  Socknersh, 
and  all  eyes  would  be  fixed  upon  her. 

They  certainly  were,  except  when  they  dropped  for  a 
wink  at  a  neighbour.  Joanna  waltzing  with  Socknersh  to 
the  trills  of  Mr.  Elphick,  the  Brodnyx  schoolmaster,  seated 
at  the  tinkling,  ancient  Collard,  Joanna  in  her  pink  gown, 
close  fitting  to  her  waist  and  then  abnormally  bunchy,  with 
her  hair  piled  high  and  twisted  with  a  strand  of  ribbon, 
with  her  face  flushed,  her  lips  parted  and  her  eyes  bright. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  45 

was  a  sight  from  which  no  man  and  few  women  could 
turn  their  eyes.  Her  vitality  and  happiness  seemed  to  shine 
from  her  skin,  almost  to  light  up  the  dark  and  heavy  figure 
of  Socknersh  in  his  Sunday  blacks,  as  he  staggered  and 
tumbled,  for  he  could  not  dance.  His  big  hand  pawed  at 
her  silken  waist,  while  the  other  held  hers  crumpled  in  it 
— his  hair  was  greased  with  butter,  and  his  skin  with  the 
sweat  of  his  endeavour  as  he  turned  her  round. 

That  was  the  only  time  Joanna  danced  that  night.  For 
the  rest  of  the  evening  she  went  about  among  her  guests, 
seeing  that  all  were  well  fed  and  had  partners.  As  time 
■went  on,  gradually  her  brightness  dimmed,  and  her  eyes 
became  almost  anxious  as  she  searched  among  the  dancers. 
Each  time  she  looked  she  seemed  to  see  the  same  thing, 
and  each  time  she  saw  it,  it  was  as  if  a  fresh  veil  dropped 
over  her  eyes. 

At  last,  towards  the  end  of  the  evening,  she  went  up 
again  to  Socknersh, 

"Would  you  like  me  to  dance  this  polka  with  you  that's 
coming?" 

"Thank  you.  Missus — I'd  be  honoured,  Missus — but  I'm 
promised  to  Martha  Tilden." 

"Martha! — You've  danced  with  her  nearly  all  the  eve- 
ning." 

"She's  bin  middling  kind  to  me,  Missus,  showing  me  the 
steps  and  hops." 

"Oh,  well,  since  you've  promised  you  must  pay." 

She  turned  her  back  on  him,  then  suddenly  smarted  at 
her  own   pettishness. 

"You've  the  makings  of  a  good  dancer  in  you,  if  you'll 
learn,"  she  said  over  her  shoulder.  "I'm  glad  Martha's 
teaching  you." 

§  14 

Lambing  was  always  late  upon  the  Marsh.  The  wan 
film  of  the  winter  grasses  had  faded  off  the  April  green 
before   the   innings   became   noisy   with    bleating,   and   the 


46  JOANNA   GODDEN 

new-born  lambs  could  match  their  whiteness  with  the  first 
flowering  of  the  blackthorn. 

It  was  always  an  anxious  time — though  the  marsh  ewes 
were  hardy — and  sleepless  for  shepherds,  who  from  the 
windows  of  their  lonely  lambing  huts  watched  the  yellow 
spring-dazzle  of  the  stars  grow  pale  night  after  night. 
They  were  bad  hours  to  be  awake,  those  hours  of  the  April 
dawn,  for  in  them,  the  shepherds  said,  a  strange  call  came 
down  from  the  country  inland,  straying  scents  of  moss  and 
primroses  reaching  out  towards  the  salt  sea,  calling  men 
away  from  the  wind-stung  levels  and  the  tides  and  water- 
courses, to  where  the  little  inland  farms  sleep  in  the  shel- 
tered hollows  among  the  hop- vines,  and  the  sunrise  is  warm 
with  scent  of  hidden  flowers. 

Dick  Socknersh  began  to  look  wan  and  large-eyed  under 
the  strain — he  looked  more  haggard  than  the  shepherd  of 
Yokes  Court  or  the  shepherd  of  Birdskitchen,  though  they 
kept  U.lt  and  vigil  as  long  as  he.  His  mistress,  too,  had 
a  fagged,  sorrowful  air,  and  soon  it  became  known  all  over 
the  Three  Marshes  that  Ansdore's  lambing  that  year  had 
been  a  gigantic  failure. 

"It's  her  own  fault,"  said  Prickett  at  the  Woolpack,  "and 
serve  her  right  for  getting  shut  of  old  Fuller,  and  then 
getting  stuck  on  this  furrin  heathen  notion  of  Spanish 
sheep.  Anyone  could  have  told  her  as  the  lambs  ud  be 
too  big  and  the  ewes  could  never  drop  them  safe — she 
might  have  known  it  herself,  surelye." 

"It's  her  looker  that  should  ought  to  have  known  better," 
said  Furnese.  "Joanna  Godden's  a  woman,  fur  all  her 
man's  ways,  and  you  can't  expect  her  to  have  praaper 
knowledge  wud  sheep." 

"I  wonder  if  she'll  get  shut  of  him  after  this,"  said  Vine. 

"Not  she !     She  don't  see  through  him  yet." 

"She'll  never  see  through  him,"  said  Prickett  solemnly, 
"the  only  kind  of  man  a  woman  ever  sees  through  is  the 
kind  she  don't  like  to  look  at." 

Joanna  certainly  did  not  "see  through"  Dick  Socknersh. 


JOANNA   GODDEN  47 

She  knew  that  she  was  chiefly  to  blame  for  the  tragedy 
of  her  lambing,  and  when  her  reason  told  her  that  her 
looker  should  have  discouraged  instead  of  obeyed  and 
abetted  her,  she  rather  angrily  tossed  the  thought  aside. 
Socknersh  had  the  sense  to  realise  that  she  knew  more  about 
sheep  than  he,  and  he  had  not  understood  that  in  this  matter 
she  was  walking  out  of  her  knowledge  into  experiment. 
No  one  could  have  known  that  the  scheme  would  turn  out 
so  badly — the  Spanish  rams  had  not  been  so  big  after  all, 
only  a  little  bigger  than  her  ewes  ...  if  anyone  should 
have  foreseen  trouble  it  was  the  Northampton  farmer  who 
knew  the  size  of  Spanish  lambs  at  birth,  and  from  his 
Kentish  experience  must  also  have  some  knowledge  of 
Romney  Marsh  sheep. 

But  though  she  succeeded  in  getting  all  the  guilt  off  her 
looker  and  some  of  it  off  herself,  she  was  nevertheless 
stricken  by  the  greatness  of  the  tragedy.  It  was  not  only 
the  financial  losses  in  which  she  was  involved,  or  the  deri- 
sion of  her  neighbours,  or  the  fulfilment  of  their  prophecy 
— or  even  the  fall  of  her  own  pride  and  the  shattering  of 
that  dream  in  which  the  giant  sheep  walked — there  was 
also  an  element  of  almost  savage  pity  for  the  animals  whom 
her  daring  had  betrayed.  Those  dead  ewes,  too  stupid  to 
mate  themselves  profitably  and  now  the  victims  of  the 
farm-socialism  that  had  experimented  with  them.  ...  At 
first  she  ordered  Socknersh  to  save  the  ewes  even  at  the 
cost  of  the  lambs,  then  when  in  the  little  looker's  hut  she 
saw  a  ewe  despairingly  lick  the  fleece  of  its  dead  lamb, 
an  even  deeper  grief  and  pity  smote  her,  and  she  burst 
suddenly  and  stormily  into  tears. 

Sinking  on  her  knees  on  the  dirty  floor,  she  covered  her 
face,  and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro.  Socknersh  sat  on  his 
three-legged  stool,  staring  at  her  in  silence.  His  forehead 
crumpled  slightly  and  his  mouth  twitched,  as  the  slow 
processes  of  his  thought  shook  him.  The  air  was  thick  with 
the  fumes  of  his  brazier,  from  which  an  angry  red  glow 
fell  on  Joanna  as  she  knelt  and  wept. 


48  JOANNA    GODDEN 

§  15 

When  the  first  sharpness  of  death  had  passed  from  those 
days,  Joanna's  sanguine  nature,  her  hopeful  bumptiousness, 
revived.  Her  pity  for  the  dead  lambs  and  her  fellow- 
feeling  of  compassion  for  the  ewes  would  prevent  her  ever 
dreaming  of  a  new  experiment,  but  already  she  was  dream- 
ing of  a  partial  justification  of  the  old  one — her  cross-bred 
lambs  would  grow  so  big  both  in  size  and  price  that  they 
would,  even  in  tht!"  diminished  numbers,  pay  for  her  daring 
and  proclaim  its  success  to  those  who  jeered  and  doubted. 

Certainly  those  lambs  which  had  survived  their  birth  now 
promised  well.  They  were  bigger  than  the  pure-bred  Kent 
lambs,  and  seemed  hardy  enough.  Joanna  watched  them 
grow,  and  broke  away  from  marsh  tradition  to  the  extent 
of  giving  them  cake — she  was  afraid  they  might  turn  boney. 

As  the  Summer  advanced,  she  pointed  them  out  trium- 
phantly to  one  or  two  farmers.  They  were  fine  animals, 
she  said,  and  justified  her  experiment,  though  she  would 
never  repeat  it  on  account  of  the  cost ;  she  did  not  expect 
to  do  more  than  cover  her  expenses. 

"You'll  be  lucky  if  you  do  that,"  said  Prickctt  rather 
brutally,  "they  look  middling  poor  in  wool." 

Joanna  was  not  discouraged,  or  even  offended,  for  she 
interpreted  all  Prickett's  remarks  in  the  light  of  Great 
Ansdore's  jealousy  of  Little  Ansdore. 

Later  on  Martha  Tilden  told  her  that  they  were  saying 
much  the  same  at  the  Woolpack, 

"I  don't  care  what  they  say  at  the  Woolpack,"  cried 
Joanna,  "and  what  business  have  you  to  know  what  they 
say  there?    I  don't  like  my  gals  hanging  around  pubs." 

T  didn't  hang  araound,  Ma'am.    'Twas  Socknersh  toald 


me. 


"Socknersh  had  no  business  to  tell  you — it's  no  concern 
of  yours." 

Martha  put  her  hand  over  her  mouth  to  hide  a  grin,  but 


JOANNA    GODDEN  49 

Joanna  could  see  it  in  her  eyes  and  the  dimples  of  her 
cheeks. 

A  sudden  anger  seized  her. 

"I  won't  have  you  gossiping  with  Socknersh,  neither — 
you  keep  away  from  my  men.  I've  often  wondered  why 
the  place  looks  in  proper  need  of  scrubbing,  and  now  I 
know.  You  can  do  your  work  or  you  can  pack  off.  I 
won't  have  you  fooling  around  with  my  men." 

"I  doan't  fool  ariiound  wud  your  men,"  cried  Martha 
indignantly.  She  was  going  to  add  "I  leave  that  to  you," 
but  she  thought  better  of  it,  because  for  several  reasons 
she  wanted  to  keep  her  place. 

Joanna  flounced  off,  and  went  to  find  Socknersh  at  the 
shearing.  In  the  shelter  of  some  hurdles  he  and  one  or 
two  travelling  shearers  were  busy  with  the  ewes'  fleeces. 
She  noticed  that  the  animal  Socknersh  was  working  on  lay 
quiet  between  his  feet,  while  the  other  men  held  theirs  with 
difficulty  and  many  struggles.  The  July  sunshine  seemed 
to  hold  the  scene  as  it  held  the  marsh  in  a  steep  of  shining 
stillness.  The  silence  was  broken  by  many  small  sounds — 
the  clip  of  the  shears,  the  panting  of  the  waiting  sheep  and 
of  the  dogs  that  guarded  them,  and  every  now  and  then 
the  sudden  scraping  scuttle  of  the  released  victim  as  it 
sprang  up  from  the  shearer's  feet  and  dashed  off  to  where 
the  shorn  sheep  huddled  naked  and  ashamed  together. 
Joanna  watched  for  a  moment  without  speaking;  then 
suddenly  she  broke  out : 

"Socknersh,  I  hear  it's  said  that  the  new  lambs  uU  be 
poor  in  wool." 

"They're  saying  it,  Missus,  but  it  aun't  true." 

"I  don't  care  if  it's  true  or  not.  You  shouldn't  ought  to 
tell  my  gal  Martha  such  things  before  you  tell  me." 

Socknersh's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  the  other  men  looked 
up  from  their  work. 

"Seemingly,"  continued  Joanna,  "everyone  on  this  farm 
hears  everything  bffr)rc  I  do,  and  it  ain't  right.  Next  time 
you  hear  a  lot  of  tedious  gossip,  Dick  Socknersh,  you  come 


50  JOANNA   GODDEN 

and  tell  me,  and  don't  waste  it  on  the  gals,  making  them 
idle." 

She  went  away,  her  eyes  bright  with  anger,  and  then 
suddenly  her  heart  smote  her.  Suppose  Socknersh  took 
offence  and  gave  notice.  She  had  rebuked  him  publicly 
before  the  hired  shearers — it  was  enough  to  make  any  man 
turn.  But  what  should  she  do  if  he  went? — lie  must  not 
go.  She  would  never  get  anyone  like  him.  She  almost 
turned  and  went  back,  but  had  enough  sense  to  stop — a 
public  apology  would  only  make  a  worse  scandal  of  a  public 
rebuke.  She  must  wait  and  see  him  alone  .  .  .  the  next 
minute  she  knew  further  that  she  must  not  apologise,  and 
the  minute  after  she  knew  further  still — almost  further 
than  she  could  bear — that  in  denying  herself  an  apology 
she  was  denying  herself  a  luxury,  that  she  wanted  to  apolo- 
gise, to  kneel  at  Socknersh's  clay-baked  feet  and  beg  his 
forgiveness,  to  humble  herself  before  him  by  her  penitence 
so  that  he  could  exalt  her  by  his  pardon.  .  .  , 

"Good  sakes  !  Whatever's  the  matter  with  me  ?"  thought 
Joanna. 

§  16 

Her  apology  took  the  discreet  form  of  a  side  of  bacon, 
and  Socknersh  did  not  give  notice — had  evidently  never 
thought  of  it.  Of  course  the  shearers  spread  the  story  of 
Joanna's  outburst  when  they  went  on  to  SI  inches  and  Birds- 
kitchen  and  other  farms,  but  no  one  was  surprised  that  the 
shepherd  stayed  on. 

"He'd  never  be  such  a  fool  as  to  give  up  being  looker 
a  day  before  she  makes  him  Master,"  said  Cobb  of  Slinches. 

"And  when  he's  Master,"  said  Mrs.  Cobb,  "he'll  get  his 
own  back  for  her  sassing  him  before  Harmer  and  his  men." 

A  few  weeks  later,  Socknersh  brought  the  first  of  the 
cross-bred  lambs  to  market  at  Rye,  and  Joanna's  wonderful 
sheep-breeding  scheme  was  finally  sealed  a  failure.  The 
lambs  were  not  only  poor  in  wool,  but  coarse  in  meat,  and 
the  butchers  would  not  deal,  small  mutton  being  the  fashion. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  51 

Altogether,  they  fetched  lower  prices  than  the  Kent  lambs, 
and  the  rumour  of  Ansdore's  losses  mounted  to  over  four 
hundred  pounds. 

Rumour  was  not  very  wide  of  the  fact — what  with  hiring 
fees,  railway  expenses,  the  loss  of  ewes  and  lambs  at  the 
lambing,  and  the  extra  diet  and  care  which  panic  had 
undertaken  for  the  survivors,  the  venture  had  put  about 
two  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  on  the  debit  side  of  Joanna's 
accounts.  She  was  able  to  meet  her  losses — her  father  had 
died  with  a  comfortable  balance  in  Lewes  Old  Bank,  and 
she  had  always  paid  ready  money,  so  was  without  any 
encumbrance  of  debt — but  Ansdore  was  bound  to  feel  the 
blow,  which  had  shorn  it  of  its  fleece  of  pleasant  profits. 
Joanna  was  for  the  first  time  confronted  by  the  need  for 
economy,  and  she  hated  economy  with  all  the  lavish,  colour- 
loving  powers  of  her  nature.  Even  now  she  would  not  bend 
herself  to  retrenchment — not  a  man  less  in  the  yard,  not 
a  girl  less  in  the  kitchen,  as  her  neighbours  had  expected. 

But  the  failure  of  the  cross-bred  lambs  did  not  end  the 
tale  of  Ansdore's  misadventures.  There  was  a  lot  of  dip- 
ping for  sheep-scab  on  the  marsh  that  August,  and  it  soon 
became  known  that  several  of  Joanna  Godden's  sheep  and 
lambs  had  died  after  the  second  dip. 

"That's  her  valiant  Socknersh  again,"  said  Prickett — 
"guv  'em  a  double  arsenic  dip.  Good  sakes !  That  woman 
had  better  be  quick  and  marry  him  before  he  does  any  more 
harm  as  her  looker." 

"There's  more  than  he  gives  a  double  arsenic  dip,  sure- 
lye." 

"Surelye — but  they  mixes  the  can  a  bit.  Broadhurst 
says  as  Socknersh's  second  dip  was  as  strong  as  his  fust." 

The  feeling  about  Socknersh's  incapacity  reached  such 
a  point  that  more  than  one  warning  was  given  Joanna  for 
her  father's  sake,  and  one  at  least  for  her  own,  from  Arthur 
Alee. 

"I  shouldn't  say  it,  Joanna,  if  it  wasn't  true,  but  a  man 


52  JOANNA    GODDEN 

who  puts  a  sheep  into  poison  wash  twice  in  a  fortnight 
isn't  fit  to  be  anyone's  looker." 

"But  we  were  dipping  for  sheep-scab — that  takes  some- 
thing stronger  than  Keatings." 

"Yes,  but  the  point  is,  d'you  see,  that  you  give  'em  the 
first  dip  in  arsenic  stuff,  and  the  next  shouldn't  ought  to  be 
poison  at  all — there's  a  lot  of  good  safe  dips  on  the  market, 
that  ull  do  very  well  for  a  second  wash." 

"Socknersh  knows  his  business." 

"He  don't — that's  why  I'm  speaking.  Fuller  ud  never 
have  done  what  he's  done.  He's  lost  you  a  dozen  prime 
sheep  on  the  top  of  all  your  other  losses." 

The  reference  was  unfortunate.  Joanna's  cheekbones 
darkened  ominously. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,  Arthur  Alee,  for  you 
think  no  one  can  run  Ansdore  except  yourself  who'll  never 
get  the  chance.  It's  well  known  around,  in  spite  of  what 
you  say,  that  Socknersh  is  valiant  with  sheep — no  one  can 
handle  'em  as  he  can ;  at  the  shearing  Harmer  and  his  men 
were  full  of  it — how  the  ewes  ud  keep  quiet  for  him  as 
for  nobody  else — and  'twas  the  same  at  the  lambing.  It 
wasn't  his  fault  that  the  lambs  died,  but  because  that  chap 
at  Northampton  never  told  us  what  he  should  ought.  .  .  . 
I  tell  you,  I've  never  had  anyone  like  him  for  handling 
sheep — they're  quite  different  with  him  from  what  they 
were  with  that  rude  old  Fuller,  barking  after  'em  like  a 
dog  along  the  Brodnyx  road  and  bringing  'em  up  to  Rye 
all  raggled  and  draggled  and  dusty  as  mops  ...  he  knows 
how  to  manage  sheep — he's  like  one  of  themselves." 

"That's  justabout  it — he's  like  another  sheep,  so  they 
ain't  scared  of  him,  but  he  can  do  no  more  for  'em  than 
another  sheep  could,  neither.  He's  ignorant — he's  got  no 
sense  nor  know,  or  he'd  never  have  let  you  breed  with 
them  Spanishes,  or  given  you  a  poisonous  double-dip — and 
he's  always  having  sway-backs  up  at  market,  too,  and  tic 
and  hoose  and  fluke.  .  .  .  Oh,  Joanna,  if  you're  any  bit 
wise  you'll  get  shut  of  him  before  he  messes  you  all  up. 


JOANNA   GODDEN  53 

And  you  know  what  folks  say — they  say  you'd  have  got 
shut  of  him  months  agone  if  you  hadn't  been  so  unaccounta- 
ble set  on  him,  so  as  they  say — yes,  they  say  one  day  you'll 
marry  him  and  make  him  Master  of  Ansdore." 

Alce's  face  flamed  as  red  as  his  whiskers  and  nearly  as 
red  as  Joanna's.  For  a  moment  she  faced  him  speechless, 
her  mouth  open. 

"Oh,  that's  what  they  say,  is  it!"  she  broke  out  at  last, 
"they  say  I'd  marry  Dick  Socknersh,  who  looks  after  my 
sheep,  and  who's  like  a  sheep  himself.  They  think  I'd 
marry  a  man  who's  got  no  more'n  two  words  on  his  tongue 
and  half  that  number  of  ideas  in  his  head — who  can't  think 
without  it's  giving  him  a  headache — who  comes  of  no  class 
of  people — his  father  and  mother  were  hedge  people  up  at 
Anvil  Green — who  gets  eighteen  bob  a  week  as  my  looker 
^who— " 

"Don't  get  so  vrothered,  Joanna.  I'm  only  telling  you 
what  folk  say,  and  if  you'll  stop  and  think,  you'll  see  they've 
got  some  reason.  Your  looker's  done  things  that  no  farmer 
on  this  marsh  ud  put  up  with  a  month,  and  yet  you  keep 
him  on,  you  with  all  your  fine  ideas  about  farming  and 
running  Ansdore  as  your  poor  father  ud  have  had  it  .  .  . 
and  then  he's  a  well  set-up  young  man  too,  nice-looking 
and  stout  as  I  won't  deny,  and  you're  a  young  woman  that 
I'd  say  was  nice-looking  too,  and  it's  only  natural  folks 
should  talk  when  they  see  a  pretty  woman  hanging  on  to 
a  handsome  chap  in  spite  of  his  having  half  bust  her." 

"He  hasn't  half  bust  me,  nor  a  quarter,  neither — and  I 
ain't  hanging  on  to  him,  as  you're  elegant  enough  to  say. 
I  keep  him  as  my  looker  because  he's  valiant  with  the  sheep 
and  manages  'em  as  if  born  to  it,  and  because  he  minds 
what  I  say  and  doesn't  sass  me  back  or  meddle,  as  some  I 
could  name.  As  for  being  set  on  him,  I'm  not  so  far  below 
myself  as  all  that.  You  must  think  unaccountable  low  of 
me,  Arthur  Alee,  if  you  figure  I'd  get  sweet  on  a  man  who's 
courting  my  chicken  gal,  which  is  what  Dick  Socknersh  is 
doing." 


54  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Courting  Martha  Tilclen?" 

"Yes,  my  chicken  gal.  And  you  think  I'd  look  at  him! — 
I !  ,  .  .  You  must  think  middling  low  of  me,  Arthur  Alee 
...  a  man  who's  courting  my  chicken  gal." 

"I'd  always  thought  as  Martha  Tilden — but  you  must 
know  best.  Well,  if  he's  courting  her,  I  hope  as  he'll  marry 
her  soon  and  show  folks  they're  wrong  about  him  and  you." 

"They  should  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves  to  need 
showing.  I  look  at  a  man  who's  courting  my  chicken  gal ! 
— I  never !  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do — I'll  raise  his  wages,  so 
as  he  can  marry  her  at  once — my  chicken  gal — and  so  as 
folk  ull  know  that  I'm  satisfied  with  him  as  my  looker." 

And  Joanna  marched  off  up  the  drive,  where  this  con- 
versation had  taken  place. 

§  17 

She  raised  Socknersh's  wages  to  twenty  shillings  the  next 
day,  and  it  was  not  due  to  any  wordy  flow  of  his  gratitude 
that  the  name  of  Martha  Tilden  was  not  mentioned  between 
them.  "Better  leave  it,"  thought  Joanna  to  herself,  "after 
all,  I'm  not  sure — and  she's  a  slut.  I'd  sooner  he  married 
a  cleaner,  steadier  sort  of  gal." 

Grace  Wickens  had  already  departed,  her  cocoa-making 
tendencies  having  lately  passed  into  mania — and  her  suc- 
cessor was  an  older  woman,  a  widow,  who  had  fallen  on 
evil  days.  She  was  a  woman  of  few  words,  and  Joanna 
wondered  a  little  when  one  afternoon  she  said  to  her  rather 
anxiously  "I'd  lik  to  speak  to  you.  Ma'am — in  private,  if 
you  please." 

They  went  into  the  larder  and  Mrs.  Tolhurst  began : 

"I  hardly  lik  to  say  it  to  you,  Miss  Joanna,  being  a  single 
spinster  .  .  ," 

This  was  a  bad  beginning,  for  Joanna  flamed  at  once  at 
the  implication  that  her  spinsterhood  put  her  at  any  dis- 
advantage as  a  woman  of  the  world. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  55 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Mrs.  Tolhurst ;  I  may  be  unwed 
as  yet,  but  I'm  none  of  your  Misses." 

"No,  Ma'am — well,  it's  about  this  Martha  Tilden— " 

Joanna  started. 

"What  about  her?" 

"Only,  Ma'am,  that  she's  six  months  gone." 

There  was  no  chair  in  the  larder,  or  Joanna  would  have 
fallen  into  it — instead  she  staggered  back  against  the  shelves, 
with  a  great  rattle  of  crockery.  Her  face  was  as  white  as 
her  own  plates,  and  for  a  moment  she  could  not  speak. 

"I  made  bold  to  tell  you,  Miss  Joanna,  for  all  the  neigh- 
bourhood's beginning  to  talk — and  the  gal  getting  near  her 
time  and  all.  ...  I  thought  maybe  you'd  have  noticed.  .  .  . 
Don't  be  in  such  a  terrilication  about  it,  Miss  Joanna.  .  .  . 
I'm  sorry  I  told  you — maybe  I  shud  ought  to  have  spuck 
to  the  gal  fust  .  .  ." 

"Don't  be  a  fool  ...  the  dirty  slut ! — I'll  learn  her  .  .  . 
under  my  very  roof — " 

"Oh,  no.  Ma'am,  'twasn't  under  your  roof — we  shouldn't 
have  allowed  it.  She  used  to  meet  him  in  the  field  down 
by  Beggar's  Bush  .  .  ." 

"Hold  your  tongue !" 

Mrs.  Tolhurst  was  offended ;  she  thought  her  mistress's 
behaviour  unwarranted  either  by  modesty  or  indignation. 
There  were  burning  tears  in  Joanna's  eyes  as  she  flung  her- 
self out  of  the  room.  She  was  blind  as  she  went  down  the 
passage,  twisting  her  apron  furiously  in  her  hands. 

"Martha  Tilden!"  she  called— "Martha  Tilden!" 

"Oh,"  she  thought  in  her  heart,  "1  raised  his  wages  so's 
he  could  marry  her — for  months  this  has  been  going  on 
...  the  field  down  by  Beggar's  Bush.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  could 
kill  her!"  Then  shouting  into  the  yard — "Martha  Tilden! 
Martha  Tilden  !" 

"I'm  coming,  Miss  Joanna,"  Martha's  soft  drawly  voice 
increased  her  bitterness  ;  her  own,  compared  with  it,  sounded 
harsh,  empty,  incxj)cricnce(l.  Martha's  voice  was  full  of 
the  secrets  of  Dick  Socknersh's  love. 


56  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Come  into  the  dairy,"  she  said  hoarsely. 

IMartha  came  and  stood  before  her.  She  evidently  knew 
what  was  ahead,  for  she  looked  pale  and  a  little  scared,  and 
yet  withal  she  had  about  her  a  strange  air  of  confidence 
.  .  .  though  not  so  strange,  after  all,  since  she  carried  Dick 
Socknersh's  child,  and  her  memory  was  full  of  his  caresses 
and  the  secrets  of  his  love  .  .  .  thus  bravely  could  Joanna 
herself  have  faced  an  angry  world.  ,  .  . 

"You  leave  my  service  at  once,"  she  said. 

Martha  began  to  cry. 

"You  know  what  for." 

"Yes,  Miss  Joanna." 

"I  wonder  you've  had  the  impudence  to  go  about  as 
you've  done — eating  my  food  and  taking  my  wages,  while 
all  the  time  you've  been  carrying  on  with  my  looker." 

"Your  looker? — No,  Miss  Joanna." 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Ma'am — I've  never  had 
naun  to  do  wud  Dick  Socknersh  if  it's  him  you're  thinking 
of." 

"Not  Socknersh,  but  I  .  .  .  who  is  the  man,  then?" 

"Well,  it  aun't  no  secret  from  anyone  but  you.  Miss 
Joanna,  so  I  doan't  mind  telling  you  as  my  boy  is  Peter 
Relf,  their  looker  at  Old  Honeychild.  We've  bin  walking 
out  ever  sinst  the  day  he  came  after  your  plaace  as  looker 
here,  and  we'd  be  married  now  if  he  hadn't  his  old  mother 
and  dad  to  keep,  and  got  into  some  nasty  silly  trouble  wud 
them  fellers  wot  put  money  on  horses  they've  never  seen. 
,  .  .  He  doan't  get  more'n  fifteen  bob  a  week  at  Honey- 
child,  and  he  can't  keep  the  old  folk  on  less  than  eight,  them 
being  always  filling  themselves  with  doctor's  stuff.  .  .  ." 

Joanna  was  not  listening  to  her — she  sat  amazed  and 
pale,  her  heart  beating  in  heavy  thuds  of  relief.  Mixed 
with  her  happiness  there  was  a  little  shame,  for  she  saw 
that  the  mistake  had  arisen  from  her  putting  herself  too 
realistically  in  ATartha's  place.  Why  had  she  jumped  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  girl's  lover  was  Socknersh?     It  is 


JOANNA    GODDEN  57 

true  that  he  had  danced  with  her  very  often  at  the  Christ- 
mas party  nine  months  ago,  and  once  since  then  she  had 
scolded  him  for  telHng  the  chicken-woman  some  news  he 
ought  first  to  have  told  the  Mistress  ...  but  that  was  very 
little  in  the  way  of  evidence,  and  Martha  had  always  been 
running  after  boys.  ... 

Seeing  her  still  silent,  Martha  began  to  cry  again. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  unaccountable  sorry,  Miss  Joanna,  and 
what's  to  become  of  me  I  don't  know,  nuther.  Maybe  I'm 
a  bad  lot,  but  it's  hard  to  love  and  wait  on  and  on  for  the 
wedding  .  .  .  and  Pete  was  sure  as  he  could  do  summat 
wud  a  horse  running  in  the  Derby  race,  and  at  the  Wool- 
pack  they  told  him  it  wur  bound  to  win.  .  .  .  I've  always 
kept  straight  up  till  this,  Ma'am,  and  a  virtuous  virgin  for 
all  I  do  grin  and  laugh  a  lot  .  .  .  and  many's  the  temp- 
tation I've  had,  being  a  lone  gal  wudout  father  or 
mother.  .  .  ." 

"Keep  quiet,  Martha,  and  have  done  with  so  much  excuse. 
You've  been  a  very  wicked  gal,  and  you  shouldn't  ought  to 
think  any  different  of  yourself.  But  maybe  I  was  too 
quick,  saying  you  were  to  go  at  once.  You  can  finish  your 
month,  seeing  as  you  were  monthly  hired." 

"Thank  you.  Miss  Joanna,  that'll  give  me  time  to  look 
around  for  another  pliiace ;  though — "  bursting  out  crying 
again — "I  doan't  see  what  good  that'll  do  me,  seeing  as  my 
time's  three  months  from  hence." 

A  great  softness  had  come  over  Joanna.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  Martha,  but  they  were 
no  longer  tears  of  anger. 

"Don't  cry.  child,"  she  said  kindly,  "I'll  see  you  don't 
come  to  want." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Miss  Joanna  .  .  .  it's  middling  good  of 
you,  and  Pete  will  repay  you  when  we're  married  and  have 
saavcd  some  tin." 

"I'll  do  my  best,  for  you've  worked  well  on  the  whole, 
and  I  shan't  forget  that  Orpington  hen  you  saved  when 
she   was  egg-bound.      But   don't   you   think,   Martha,"   she 


58  JOANNA    GODDEN 

added  seriously,  "that  I'm  holding  with  any  of  your  goings- 
on.  I'm  shocked  and  ashamed  at  you,  for  you've  done  some- 
thing very  wicked — something  that's  spoken  against  in  the 
Bible,  and  in  church  too — it's  in  the  Ten  Commandments. 
I  wonder  you  could  kneel  in  your  place  and  say  'Lord  have 
mercy  upon  us,'  knowing  what  you'd  been  up  to" — Martha's 
tears  flowed  freely — "and  it's  sad  to  think  you've  kept 
yourself  straight  for  years  as  you  say,  and  then  gone 
wrong  at  last,  just  because  you  hadn't  patience  to  wait  for 
your  lawful  wedding  .  .  .  and  all  the  scandal  there's  been 
and  ull  be,  and  folks  talking  at  you  and  at  me  .  .  .  and 
you  be  off  now,  and  tell  Mrs.  Tolhurst  you're  to  have  the 
cream  on  your  milk  and  take  it  before  it's  skimmed." 


§  18 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  Joanna  was  in  a  strange  fret — 
dreams  seemed  to  hang  over  life  like  mist,  there  was  sor- 
row in  all  she  did,  and  yet  a  queer,  suffocating  joy.  She 
told  herself  that  she  was  upset  by  Martha's  revelation,  but 
at  the  same  time  she  knew  it  had  upset  her  not  so  much 
in  itself  as  in  the  disturbing  new  self-knowledge  it  had 
brought.  She  could  not  hide  from  herself  that  she  was 
delighted,  overjoyed  to  find  that  her  shepherd  did  not  love 
her  chicken-girl,  that  the  thoughts  she  had  thought  about 
them  for  nine  months  were  but  vain  thoughts. 

Was  it  true,  then,  that  she  was  moving  along  that  road 
which  the  villagers  had  marked  out  for  her — the  road 
which  would  end  before  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  in  Brod- 
nyx  church,  with  her  looker  as  her  bridegroom? — The 
mere  thought  was  preposterous  to  her  pride.  She,  her 
father's  daughter,  to  marry  his  father's  son ! — the  suspicion 
insulted  her.  She  loved  herself  and  Ansdore  too  well  for 
that  .  .  .  and  Socknersh,  fine  fellow  as  he  was,  had  no 
mind  and  very  little  sense — he  could  scarcely  read  and 
write,  he  was  slow  as  an  ox,  and  had  common  ways  and 


JOANNA   GODDEN  59 

spoke  the  low  marsh  talk — he  drank  out  of  his  saucer  and 
cut  his  bread  with  his  pocket-knife — he  spat  in  the  yard — 
How  dared  people  think  she  would  marry  him? — that  she 
was  so  undignified,  infatuated  and  unfastidious  as  to  yoke 
herself  to  a  slow,  common  boor?  Her  indignation  flamed 
against  the  scan-dal-mongers  .  .  .  that  Woolpack !  She'd 
like  to  see  their  license  taken  away,  and  then  perhaps  decent 
women's  characters  would  be  safe.  .  .  . 

But  folk  said  it  was  queer  she  should  keep  on  Socknersh 
when  he  had  done  her  such  a  lot  of  harm — they  made  sure 
there  must  be  something  behind  it.  For  the  first  time, 
Joanna  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  shortcomings  as  a  looker, 
and  in  a  moment  of  vision  asked  herself  if  it  was  really 
true  that  he  ought  to  have  known  about  that  dip.  Was  she 
blinding  herself  to  his  incapacity  simply  because  she  liked 
to  have  him  about  the  place  ? — to  see  his  big  stooping  figure 
blocked  against  the  sunset — to  see  his  queer  eyes  light  up 
with  queer  thoughts  that  were  like  a  dog's  thoughts  or  a 
sheep's  thoughts  ...  to  watch  his  hands,  big  and  heavy 
and  brown,  with  the  earth  worked  into  the  skin  .  .  .  and 
his  neck,  when  he  lifted  his  head,  brown  as  his  hands,  and 
like  the  trunk  of  an  oak  with  roots  of  firm,  beautiful  muscle 
in  the  field  of  his  broad  chest.  .  .  . 

Then  Joanna  was  scared — she  knew  she  ought  not  to 
think  of  her  looker  so;  and  she  told  herself  that  she  kept 
him  on  only  because  he  was  the  only  man  she'd  ever  had 
about  the  place  who  had  minded  her  properly.  .  .  . 

When  evening  came,  she  began  to  feel  stifled  in  the 
house,  where  she  had  been  busy  ironing  curtains,  and  tying 
on  her  ohl  straw  hat  went  out  for  a  breath  of  air  on  the 
road.  There  was  a  ligiit  mist  over  the  watercourses, 
veiling  the  pollards  and  thorn  trees  and  the  reddening 
thickets  of  Ansdore's  bush — a  flavour  of  salt  was  in  it.  for 
the  tides  were  high  in  the  channels,  and  the  sunset  breeze 
was  blowing  from  Rye  Bay.  Northward,  the  Coa.st — as 
the  high  bank  marking  the  old  shores  of  England  before  the 
flood  was  still  called — was  dim,  like  a  low  line  of  clouds 


60  JOANNA    GODDEN 

beyond  the  marsh.  The  sun  hung  red  and  rayless  above 
Beggar's  Bush,  a  crimson  ball  of  frost  and  fire. 

A  queer  feeHng  of  sadness  came  to  Joanna — queer,  unac- 
countable, yet  seeming  to  drain  itself  from  the  very  depths 
of  her  body,  and  to  belong  not  only  to  her  flesh  but  to  the 
marsh  around  her,  to  the  pastures  with  their  tawny  veil  of 
withered  seed-grasses,  to  the  thorn-bushes  spotted  with  the 
red  haws,  to  the  sky  and  to  the  sea,  and  the  mists  in  which 
they  merged  together.  .  .  . 

"I'll  get  shut  of  Socknersh,"  she  said  to  herself — "I  be- 
lieve folks  are  right,  and  he's  too  like  a  sheep  himself  to 
be  any  real  use  to  them." 

She  walked  on  a  little  way,  over  the  powdery  Brodnyx 
road. 

"I'm  silly — that's  what  I  am.  Who'd  have  thought  it? 
I'll  send  him  off — but  then  folks  ull  say  I'm  afraid  of 
gossip." 

She  chewed  the  bitter  cud  of  this  idea  over  a  hurrying 
half  mile,  which  took  her  across  the  railway  and  then 
brought  her  back,  close  to  the  Kent  Ditch. 

"I  can't  afford  to  let  the  place  come  to  any  harm — besides, 
what  does  it  matter  what  people  think  or  say  of  me?  I 
don't  care.  .  .  .  But  it'll  be  a  mortal  trouble  getting  another 
looker  and  settling  him  to  my  ways — and  I'll  never  get  a 
man  who'll  mind  me  as  poor  Socknersh  used.  I  want  a 
man  with  a  humble  soul,  but  seemingly  you  can't  get  that 
through  advertising.  .  ,  ," 

She  had  come  to  the  bridge  over  the  Kent  Ditch,  and 
Sussex  ended  in  a  swamp  of  reeds.  Looking  southward 
she  saw  the  boundaries  of  her  own  land,  the  Kent  Innings, 
dotted  with  sheep,  and  the  shepherd's  cottage  among  them, 
its  roof  standing  out  a  bright  orange  under  the  fleece  of 
lichen  that  smothered  the  tiles.  It  suddenly  struck  her 
that  a  good  way  out  of  her  difficulty  might  be  a  straight 
talk  with  Socknersh.  He  would  probably  be  working  in 
his  garden  now,  having  those  few  evening  hours  as  his  own. 
Straining  her  eyes  into  the  shining  thickness  of  mist  and 


JOANNA    GODDEN  61 

sun,  she  thought  she  could  see  his  blue  shirt  moving  among 
the  bean-rows  and  hollyhocks  round  the  little  place. 

"I'll  go  and  see  him  and  talk  it  out — I'll  tell  him  that 
if  he  won't  have  proper  sense  he  must  go.  I've  been  soft, 
putting  up  v^ith  him  all  this  time." 

Being  marsh  bred,  Joanna  did  not  take  what  seemed  the 
obvious  way  to  the  cottage,  across  the  low  pastures  by  the 
Kent  Ditch;  instead,  she  went  back  a  few  yards  to  where 
a  dyke  ran  under  the  road.  She  followed  it  out  on  the 
marsh,  and  when  it  cut  into  another  dyke  she  followed  that, 
walking  on  the  bank  beside  the  great  teazle.  A  plank 
bridge  took  her  across  between  two  willows,  and  after 
some  more  such  movements,  like  a  pawn  on  a  chessboard, 
she  had  crossed  three  dykes  and  was  at  the  shepherd's  gate. 

He  was  working  at  the  further  side  of  the  garden  and 
did  not  see  her  till  she  called  him.  She  had  been  to  his 
cottage  only  once  before,  when  he  complained  of  the  roof 
leaking,  but  Sockncrsh  would  not  have  shown  surprise  if 
he  had  seen  Old  Goodman  of  the  marsh  tales  standing  at 
his  door.  Joanna  had  stern,  if  somewhat  arbitrary,  notions 
of  propriety,  and  now  not  only  did  she  refuse  to  come 
inside  the  gate,  but  she  made  him  come  and  stand  outside 
it,  among  the  seed-grasses  which  were  like  the  ghost  of  hay. 

It  struck  her  that  she  had  timed  her  visit  a  little  too  late. 
Already  the  brightness  had  gone  from  the  sunset,  leaving 
a  dull  red  ball  hanging  lustreless  between  the  clouds.  There 
was  no  wind,  but  the  air  seemed  to  be  moving  slowly  up 
from  the  sea,  heavy  with  mist  and  salt  and  the  scent  of 
haws  and  blackberries,  of  dew-soaked  grass  and  fleeces. 
.  .  .  Sockncrsh  stood  before  her  with  his  blue  shirt  open 
at  the  neck.  From  him  came  a  smell  of  earth  and  sweat 
...  his  clothes  smelt  of   sheep.  ... 

She  opened  her  mouth  to  tell  him  that  she  was  highly 
displeased  with  the  way  he  had  managed  her  flock  since  the 
shearing,  but  instead  she  only  said: 

"Look  1" 

Over  the  eastern  rim  of  the  marsh  the  moon  had  risen. 


62  JOANNA    GODDEN 

a  red,  Ughtless  disk,  while  the  sun,  red  and  lightless  too, 
hung  in  the  west  above  Rye  Hill.  The  sun  and  the  moon 
looked  at  each  other  across  the  marsh,  and  midway  between 
them,  in  the  spell  of  their  flushed,  haunted  glow,  stood 
Socknersh,  big  and  stooping,  like  some  lonely  beast  of  the 
earth  and  night.  ...  A  strange  fear  touched  Joanna — she 
tottered,  and  his  arm  came  out  to  save  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  as  if  the  marsh  itself  enfolded  her,  for  his  clothes 
and  skin  were  caked  with  the  soil  of  it.  .  .  .  She  opened 
her  eyes,  and  looking  up  into  his  saw  her  own  face,  infi- 
nitely white  and  small,  looking  down  at  her  out  of  them. 
Joanna  Godden  looked  at  her  out  of  Socknersh's  eyes.  She 
stirred  feebly,  and  she  found  that  he  had  set  her  a  little 
way  from  him,  still  holding  her  by  the  shoulders,  as  if  he 
feared  she  would  fall. 

"Do  you  feel  better,  Missus?" 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  snapped. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  if  I  took  any  liberty.  Missus.  But  I 
thought  maybe  you'd  turned  fainty-like." 

"You  thought  wrong" — her  anger  was  mounting — "I  trod 
on  a  mole-hill.  You've  messed  my  nice  alpaca  body — if  you 
can't  help  getting  dirt  all  over  yourself,  you  shouldn't  ought 
to  touch  a  lady,  even  if  she's  in  a  swound." 

"I'm  middling  sorry.  Missus." 

His  voice  was  quite  tranquil — it  was  like  oil  on  the  fire 
of  Joanna's  wrath. 

"Maybe  you  are,  and  so  am  I.  You  shouldn't  ought  to 
have  cotched  hold  of  me  like  that.  But  it's  all  of  a  match 
with  the  rest  of  your  doings,  you  great  stupid  owl.  You've 
lost  me  more'n  a  dozen  prime  sheep  by  not  mixing  your 
dip  proper — after  having  lost  me  the  best  of  my  ewes  and 
Iambs  with  your  ignorant  notions — and  now  you  go  and 
put  finger  marks  over  my  new  alpaca  body,  all  because  you 
won't  think,  or  keep  yourself  clean.  You  can  take  a 
month's  notice." 

Socknersh  stared  at  her  with  eyes  and  mouth  wide  open. 

"A  month's  notice,"  she  repeated,  "it's  what  I  came  here 


JOANNA   GODDEN  63 

to  give  you.  You're  the  tale  of  all  the  parish  with  your 
ignorance.  I'd  meant  to  talk  to  you  about  it  and  give  you 
another  chance,  but  now  I  see  there'd  be  no  sense  in  that, 
and  you  can  go  at  the  end  of  your  month." 

"You'll  give  me  a  character,  Missus?" 

"I'll  give  you  a  prime  character  as  a  drover  or  a  plough- 
man or  a  carter  or  a  dairyman  or  a  housemaid  or  a  curate 
or  anything  you  like  except  a  looker.  Why  should  I  give 
you  eighteen  shilling  a  week  as  my  looker — twenty  shilling, 
as  I've  made  it  now — when  my  best  wether  could  do  what 
you  do  quite  as  well  and  not  take  a  penny  for  it?  You've 
got  no  more  sense  or  know  than  a  tup  .  .  ." 

She  stopped,  breathless,  her  cheeks  and  eyes  burning,  a 
curious  ache  in  her  breast.  The  sun  was  gone  now,  only 
the  moon  hung  flushed  in  the  foggy  sky.  Socknersh's  face 
was  in  darkness  as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  east,  but 
she  could  see  on  his  features  a  look  of  surprise  and  dismay 
which  suddenly  struck  her  as  pathetic  in  its  helpless  stu- 
pidity. After  all,  this  great  hulking  man  was  but  a  child, 
and  he  was  unhappy  because  he  must  go  and  give  up  his 
snug  cottage  and  the  sheep  he  had  learned  to  care  for  and 
the  kind  mistress  who  gave  him  sides  of  bacon.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  sudden  strangling  spasm  in  her  throat,  and  his  face 
swam  into  the  sky  on  a  mist  of  tears,  which  welled  up  in 
her  voice  as  without  another  word  she  turned  away. 

His  voice  came  after  her  piteously : 

"Missus — Missus — but  you  raised  my  wages  last  week." 

§  19 

Ilcr  tears  were  dry  by  the  time  she  reached  home,  but  in 
the  night  they  flowed  again,  accompanied  by  angry  sobs, 
which  she  choked  in  her  pillow,  for  fear  of  waking  little 
Ellen. 

She  cried  because  she  was  humbled  in  her  own  eyes.  It 
was  as  if  a  veil  had  been  torn  from  the  last  two  years,  and 
she  saw  her  motives  at  last.    For  two  years  she  had  endured 


64  JOANNA    GODDEN 

an  ignorant,  inefficient  servant  simply  because  his  strength 
and  good  looks  had  enslaved  her  susceptible  woman- 
hood. .  .  . 

Her  father  would  never  have  acted  as  she  had  done ;  he 
would  not  have  kept  Socknersh  a  single  month;  he  would 
not  have  engaged  him  at  all — both  Relf  of  Honeychild  and 
Day  of  Slinches  were  more  experienced  men,  with  better 
recommendations ;  and  yet  she  had  chosen  Socknersh — 
because  his  brown  eyes  had  held  and  drowned  her  judg- 
ment as  surely  as  they  had  held  her  image,  so  dwindled 
and  wan,  when  she  looked  into  them  that  evening,  between 
the  setting  sun  and  the  rising  moon. 

Then,  after  she  had  engaged  him,  he  had  shown  just 
enough  natural  capacity  for  her  to  blind  herself  with — his 
curious  affinity  with  the  animals  he  tended  had  helped  her 
to  forget  the  many  occasions  on  which  he  had  failed  to 
rise  above  them  in  intelligence.  It  had  been  left  to  others 
to  point  out  to  her  that  a  man  might  be  good  with  sheep 
simply  because  he  was  no  better  than  a  sheep  himself. 

And  now  she  w^as  humbled — in  her  own  eyes,  and  also  in 
the  eyes  of  her  neighbours.  She  would  have  to  confess 
herself  in  the  wrong.  Everyone  knew  that  she  had  just 
raised  Socknersh's  wages,  so  there  would  be  no  good  pre- 
tending that  she  had  known  his  shortcomings  from  the 
first,  but  had  put  up  with  them  as  long  as  she  could. 
Everyone  would  guess  that  something  had  happened  to 
make  her  change  her  mind  about  him  .  .  .  there  would  be 
some  terrible  talk  at  the  Woolpack. 

And  there  was  Socknersh  himself,  poor  fellow — the  mar- 
tyr of  her  impulses.  She  thrust  her  face  deep  into  the  pillow 
when  she  thought  of  him.  She  had  given  him  as  sharp  a 
blow  as  his  thick  hide  would  ever  let  him  suffer.  She 
would  never  forget  that  last  look  on  his  face.  .  .  . 

Then  she  began  wondering  why  this  should  have  come 
upon  her.  Why  should  she  have  made  a  fool  of  herself 
over  Socknersh,  when  she  had  borne  unmoved  the  court- 
ship of  Arthur  Alee  for  seven  years?    Was  it  just  because 


JOANNA    GODDEN  65 

Alee  had  red  whiskers  and  red  hands  and  red  hair  on  his 
hands,  while  Socknersh  was  dark  and  sweet  of  face  and 
limb?  It  was  terrible  to  think  that  mere  youth  and  come- 
liness and  virility  should  blind  her  judgment  and  strip  her 
of  commonsense.  Yet  this  was  obviously  the  lesson  she 
must  learn  from  today's  disgrace. 

Hot  and  tear-stained,  she  climbed  out  of  bed,  and  paced 
across  the  dark  room  to  the  grey  blot  of  the  window.  She 
forgot  her  distrust  of  the  night  air  in  all  her  misery  of 
throbbing  head  and  heart,  and  flung  back  the  casement,  so 
that  the  soft  marsh  wind  came  in,  with  rain  upon  it,  and 
her  tears  were  mingled  with  the  tears  of  the  night. 

"Oh,  God !"  she  mourned  to  herself — "why  didn't  you 
make  me  a  man?" 


PART    TWO 
FIRST    LOVE 


PART   TWO 
FIRST   LOVE 


§  1 

It  took  Joanna  nearly  two  years  to  recover  from  the 
loss  of  her  sheep.  Some  people  would  have  done  it  earlier, 
but  she  was  not  a  clever  economist.  Where  many  women 
on  the  marsh  would  have  thrown  themselves  into  an  orgy 
of  retrenchment — ranging  from  the  dismissal  of  a  dairy- 
maid to  the  substitution  of  a  cheaper  brand  of  tea — she 
made  no  new  occasions  for  thrift,  and  persevered  but  lamely 
in  the  old  ones.  She  was  fond  of  spending — liked  to  see 
things  trim  and  bright ;  she  hated  waste,  especially  when 
others  were  guilty  of  it,  but  she  found  a  positive  support 
in  display. 

She  was  also  generous.  Everybody  knew  that  she  had 
paid  Dick  Socknersh  thirty  shillings  for  the  two  weeks  that 
he  was  out  of  work  after  leaving  her — before  he  went  as 
cattleman  to  an  inland  farm — and  she  had  found  the  money 
for  Martha  Tildcn's  wedding,  and  for  her  lying-in  a  month 
afterwards;  and  some  time  later  she  had  helped  Peter  Rclf 
with  ready  cash  to  settle  his  debts  and  move  himself  and 
his  wife  and  baby  to  West  Wittering,  where  he  had  the 
offer  of  a  place  with  three  shillings  a  week  more  than  they 
gave  at  TToncychild. 

She  might  have  indulged  herself  still  further  in  this  way, 
which  gratified  both  her  warm  heart  and  her  proud  head, 
if  she  had  not  wanted  so  much  to  send  Ellen  to  a  good 
school.  The  school  at  Rye  was  all  very  well,  attended  by 
the  daughters  of  tradesmen  and   farmers,  and  taught  by 

69 


70  JOANNA   GODDEN 

women  Joanna  recognised  as  ladies;  but  she  had  long 
dreamed  of  sending  her  little  sister  to  a  really  good  school 
at  Folkestone — where  Ellen  would  wear  a  ribbon  round  her 
hat  and  go  for  walks  in  a  long  procession  of  two-and-two, 
and  be  taught  wonderful,  showy  and  intricate  things  by 
ladies  with  letters  after  their  names — whom  Joanna  de- 
spised because  she  felt  sure  they  had  never  had  a  chance 
of  getting  married. 

She  herself  had  been  educated  at  the  National  School, 
and  from  six  to  fourteen  had  trudged  to  and  fro  on  the 
Brodnyx  road,  learning  to  read  and  write  and  reckon  and 
say  her  catechism.  .  .  .  But  this  was  not  good  enough  for 
Ellen.  Joanna  had  made  up  her  mind  that  Ellen  should 
be  a  lady ;  she  was  pretty  and  lazy  and  had  queer  likes  and 
dislikes — all  promising  signs  of  vocation.  She  would  never 
learn  to  care  for  Ansdore,  with  its  coarse  and  crowding 
occupations,  so  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  grow 
up  like  her  sister  in  capable  conunonness.  Half  uncon- 
sciously Joanna  had  planned  a  future  in  which  she  ven- 
tured and  toiled,  while  Ellen  wore  a  silk  dress  and  sat  on 
the  drawing-room  sofa — that  being  the  happiest  lot  she 
could  picture  for  anyone,  though  she  would  have  loathed 
it  herself. 

In  a  couple  of  years  Ansdore's  credit  once  more  stood 
high  at  Lewes  Old  Bank,  and  Ellen  could  be  sent  to  a 
select  school  at  Folkestone — so  select,  indeed,  that  there 
had  been  some  difficulty  about  getting  her  father's  daughter 
into  it.  Joanna  was  surprised,  as  well  as  disgusted,  that 
the  schoolmistress  should  give  herself  such  airs,  for  she 
was  very  plainly  dressed,  whereas  Joanna  had  put  on  all 
her  most  gorgeous  apparel  for  the  interview ;  but  she  had 
been  very  glad  when  her  sister  was  finally  accepted  as  a 
pupil  at  Rose  Hill  House,  for  now  she  would  have  as 
companions  the  daughters  of  clergymen  and  squires,  and 
learn,  no  doubt,  to  model  herself  on  their  refinement.  She 
might  even  be  asked  to  their  homes  for  her  holidays,  and, 
making  friends  in  their  circle,  take  a  short  cut  to  silken 


JOANNA    GODDEN  71 

immobility  on  the  drawing-room  sofa  by  way  of  marriage. 
.  .  .  Joanna  congratulated  herself  on  having  really  done 
very  well  for  Ellen,  though  during  the  first  weeks  she 
missed  her  sister  terribly.  She  missed  their  quarrels  and 
caresses — she  missed  Ellen's  daintiness  at  meals,  though  she 
had  often  smacked  it — she  missed  her  strutting  at  her  side 
to  church  on  Sunday — she  missed  her  noisy,  remonstrant 
setting  out  to  school  every  morning  and  her  noisy,  affection- 
ate return — her  heart  ached  when  she  looked  at  the  little 
empty  bed  in  her  room,  and  being  sentimental  she  often 
dropped  a  tear  where  she  used  to  drop  a  kiss  on  Ellen's 
pillow. 

Nevertheless,  she  was  proud  of  what  she  had  done  for 
her  little  sister,  and  she  was  proud,  too,  of  having  restored 
Ansdore  to  prosperity,  not  by  stingeing  and  paring,  but 
by  her  double  capacity  for  working  hard  herself  and  for 
getting  all  the  possible  work  out  of  others.  If  no  one  had 
gone  short  under  her  roof,  neither  had  anyone  gone  idle — 
if  the  tea  was  strong  and  the  butter  was  thick  and  there 
was  always  prime  bacon  for  breakfast  on  Sundays,  so  was 
there  also  a  great  clatter  on  the  stairs  at  five  o'clock  each 
morning,  a  rattle  of  brooms  and  hiss  and  slop  of  scrubbing- 
brushes — and  the  mistress  with  clogs  on  her  feet  and  her 
father's  coat  over  her  gown,  poking  her  head  into  the  maids' 
room  to  see  if  they  were  up,  hurrying  the  men  over  their 
snacks,  shouting  commands  across  the  yard,  into  the  barns 
or  into  the  kitchen,  and  seemingly  omnipresent  to  those 
slackers  who  paused  to  rest  or  chat  or  "put  their  feet  up." 

That  time  had  scarred  her  a  little — put  some  lines  into 
the  corners  of  her  eyes  and  straightened  the  curling  corners 
of  her  mouth,  but  it  had  also  heightened  the  rich,  healthy 
colour  on  her  cheeks,  enlarged  her  fine  girth,  her  strength 
of  shoulder  and  depth  of  bosom.  She  did  not  look  any 
older,  because  she  was  so  superbly  healthy  and  superbly 
proud.  She  knew  that  the  neighbours  were  impressed  by 
Ansdore's  thriving,  when  they  had  foretold  its  downfall 
under  her  sway.  .  .  .  She  had  vindicated  her  place  in  her 


72  JOANNA    GODDEN 

father's  shoes,  and  best  of  all,  she  had  expiated  her  folly 
in  the  matter  of  Socknersh,  and  restored  her  credit  not 
only  in  the  bar  of  the  Woolpack,  but  in  her  own  eyes. 


§2 

One  afternoon,  soon  after  Ellen  had  gone  back  to  school 
for  her  second  year,  when  Joanna  was  making  plum  jam  in 
the  kitchen  and  getting  very  hot  and  sharp-tongued  in  the 
process,  Mrs.  Tolhurst  saw  a  man  go  past  the  window  on 
his  way  to  the  front  door. 

"Lor,  Miss!  There's  Parson!"  she  cried,  and  the  next 
minute  came  sounds  of  struggle  with  Joanna's  rusty  door- 
bell. 

"Go  and  see  what  he  wants — take  off  that  sacking  apron 
first — and  if  he  wants  to  see  me,  put  him  into  the  par- 
lour." 

Mr.  Pratt  lacked  "visiting"  among  many  other  accom- 
plishments as  a  parish  priest — the  vast,  strewn  nature  of 
his  parish  partly  excused  him — and  a  call  from  him  was  not 
the  casual  event  it  would  have  been  in  many  places,  but 
startling  and  portentous,  requiring  fit  celebration. 

Joanna  received  him  in  state,  supported  by  her  father's 
Bible  and  stuffed  owls.  She  had  kept  him  waiting  while 
she  changed  her  gown,  for  like  many  people  who  are  some- 
times very  splendid,  she  could  also  on  occasion  be  ex- 
tremely disreputable,  and  her  jam-making  costume  was 
quite  unfit  for  the  masculine  eye,  even  though  negligible. 
Mr.  Pratt  had  grown  rather  nervous  waiting  for  her — he 
had  always  been  afraid  of  her,  because  of  her  big,  breath- 
less ways,  and  because  he  felt  sure  that  she  was  one  of  the 
many  who  criticised  him. 

"I — I've  only  come  about  a  little  thing — at  least  it's  not 
a  little  thing  to  me,  but  a  very  big  thing — er-er — " 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Joanna,  a  stuffed  owl  staring  dis- 
concertingly over  each  shoulder. 

"For  some  time  there's  been  complaints  about  the  music 


JOANNA    GODDEN  73 

in  church.  Of  course,  I'm  quite  sure  Mr.  Elphick  does 
wonders,  and  the  ladies  of  the  choir  are  excellent — er — 
gifted  .  .  .  I'm  quite  sure.  But  the  harmonium — it's  very- 
old  and  quite  a  lot  of  the  notes  won't  play  ,  .  .  and  the 
bellows  .  .  .  Mr.  Saunders  came  from  Lydd  and  had  a 
look  at  it,  but  he  says  it's  past  repair — er — satisfactory 
repair,  and  it  ud  really  save  money  in  the  long  run  if  we 
bought  a  new  one." 

Joanna  was  a  little  shocked.  She  had  listened  to  the 
grunts  and  wheezes  of  the  harmonium  from  her  childhood, 
and  the  idea  of  a  new  one  disturbed  her — it  suggested 
sacrilege  and  ritualism  and  the  moving  of  landmarks. 

"I  like  what  we've  got  very  well,"  she  said  truculently — 
"It's  done  for  us  properly  this  thirty  year." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  the  Rector,  "it's  done  so  well  that 
I  think  we  ought  to  let  it  retire  from  business,  and  appoint 
something  younger  in  its  place  .  .  .  he !  he !"  He  looked 
at  her  nervously  to  see  if  she  had  appreciated  the  joke, 
but  Joanna's  humour  was  not  of  that  order. 

"I  don't  like  the  idea,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Pratt  miserably  clasped  and  unclasped  his  hands. 
He  felt  th^t  one  day  he  would  be  crushed  between  his  pa- 
rishioners' hatred  of  change  and  his  fellow  priests'  insistence 
on  it — rumour  said  that  the  Squire's  elder  son,  Father 
Lawrence,  was  coming  home  at  Christmas,  and  the  poor 
little  Rector  quailed  to  think  of  what  he  would  say  of  the 
harmonium  if  it  was  still  in  its  place. 

"I — er — Miss  Goddcn — I  feel  our  reputation  is  at  stake. 
Visitors,  you  know,  come  to  our  little  church,  and  are 
surprised  to  find  us  so  far  behind  the  times  in  our  music. 
At  Pedlinge  we've  only  got  a  piano,  but  I'm  not  worrying 
about  that  now.  Perhaps  the  harmonium  might  be  patched 
uj)  enough  for  I'edlinge,  where  our  services  are  not  as  yet 
Fully  Choral  ...  it  all  depends  on  how  much  money  we 
collect." 

"IIow  much  do  you  want?" 

"Well,  I'm  told  that  a  cheap,  good  make  would  be  thirty 


74  JOANNA    GODDEN 

pounds.  We  want  it  to  last  us  well,  you  see,  as  I  don't 
suppose  we  shall  ever  have  a  proper  organ." 

He  handed  her  a  little  book  in  which  he  had  entered  the 
names  of  subscribers. 

"People  have  been  very  generous  already,  and  I'm  sure 
if  your  name  is  on  the  list  they  will  give  better  still." 

The  generosity  of  the  neighbourhood  amounted  to  five 
shillings  from  Prickett  of  Great  Ansdore,  and  half  crowns 
from  Vine,  Furnese,  Vennal  and  a  few  others.  As  Joanna 
studied  it,  she  became  possessed  of  two  emotions — one  was 
a  sense  that  since  others,  including  Great  Ansdore,  had 
given,  she  could  not,  in  proper  pride,  hold  back ;  the  other 
was  a  queer  savage  pity  for  Mr.  Pratt  and  his  poor  little 
collection — scarcely  a  pound  as  the  result  of  all  his  begging, 
and  yet  he  had  called  it  generous.  .  .  . 

She  immediately  changed  her  mind  about  the  scheme,  and 
going  over  to  a  side  table  where  an  ink-pot  and  pen  reposed 
on  a  woolly  mat,  she  prepared  to  enter  her  name  in  the 
little  book. 

"I'll  give  him  ten  shillings,"  she  said  to  herself — "I'll 
have  given  the  most." 

Mr.  Pratt  watched  her.  He  found  something  stimulating 
in  the  sight  of  her  broad  back  and  shoulders,  her  large 
presence  had  invigorated  him — somehow  he  felt  self-con- 
fident, as  he  had  not  felt  for  years,  and  he  began  to  talk, 
first  about  the  harmonium  and  then  about  himself — he  was 
a  widower  with  three  pale  little  children,  whom  he  dragged 
up  somehow  on  an  income  of  two  hundred  a  year. 

Joanna  was  not  listening.  She  was  thinking  to  herself — 
"My  cheque-book  is  in  the  drawer.  If  I  wrote  him  a 
cheque,  how  grand  it  would  look." 

Finally  she  opened  the  drawer  and  took  the  cheques  out. 
After  all,  she  could  afford  to  be  generous — she  had  nearly 
a  hundred  pounds  in  Lewes  Old  Bank,  put  aside  without 
any  scraping  for  future  "improvements."  How  much  could 
she  spare?  A  guinea — that  would  look  handsome,  among 
all  the  miserable  half-crowns.  .  .  . 


JOANNA    GODDEN  75 

Mr.  Pratt  had  seen  the  cheque-book,  and  a  stutter  came 
into  his  speech — 

"So  good  of  you,  Miss  Godden  ...  to  help  me  .  .  .  en- 
couraging, you  know  .  .  .  been  to  so  many  places,  a  tiring 
afternoon  .  .  ,  feel  rewarded." 

She  suddenly  felt  her  throat  grow  tight ;  the  queer  com- 
passion had  come  back.  She  saw  him  trotting  forlornly 
round  from  farm  to  farm,  begging  small  sums  from  people 
much  better  off  than  himself,  receiving  denials  or  grudging 
gifts  ...  his  boots  were  all  over  dust,  she  had  noticed 
them  on  her  carpet.  Her  face  flushed,  as  she  suddenly 
dashed  her  pen  into  the  ink,  wrote  out  the  cheque  in  her 
careful,  half-educated  hand,  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"There — that'll  save  you  from  tramping  any  further." 

She  had  written  the  cheque  for  the  whole  amount. 

Mr.  Pratt  could  not  speak.  He  opened  and  shut  his 
mouth  like  a  fish.  Then  suddenly  he  began  to  gabble,  he 
poured  out  thanks  and  assurances  and  deprecations  in  a 
stammering  torrent.  His  gratitude  overwhelme<:l  Joanna, 
disgusted  her.  She  lost  her  feeling  of  warmth  and  com- 
passion— after  all,  what  should  she  pity  him  for  now  that 
he  had  got  what  he  wanted,  and  much  more  easily  than  he 
deserved? 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Pratt.  I'm  sorry  I  can't  wait  any 
longer  now.     I'm  making  jam." 

She  forgot  his  dusty  boots  and  weary  legs  that  had 
scarcely  had  time  to  rest,  she  forgot  that  she  had  meant  to 
offer  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Good  afternoon,"  she  said,  as  he  rose,  with  apologies 
for  keeping  her. 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door,  snatched  his  hat  olT  the 
peg  and  gave  it  to  him,  then  crashed  the  door  behind  him, 
her  cheeks  burning  with  a  queer  kind  of  shame. 

§  3 
For  the  next  few  days  Joanna  avoided   Mr.   Pratt ;  she 
could  not  tell  why  her  munificence  should  make  her  dislike 


76  JOANNA    GODDEN 

him,  but  it  did.  One  day  as  she  was  walking  through  Ped- 
linge  she  saw  him  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  talk- 
ing to  a  young  man  whom  on  approach  she  recognised  as 
Martin  Trevor,  the  Squire's  second  son.  She  could  not 
get  out  of  his  way,  as  the  Pedlinge  dyke  was  on  one  side 
of  the  road  and  on  the  other  were  some  cottages.  To  turn 
back  would  be  undignified,  so  she  decided  to  pass  them  with 
a  distant  and  lordly  bow. 

Unfortunately  for  this,  she  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  glance  at  Martin  Trevor — she  had  not  seen  him 
for  some  time,  and  it  was  surprising  to  meet  him  in  the 
middle  of  the  week  as  he  generally  came  home  only  for 
week-ends.  That  glance  was  her  undoing — a  certain  cor- 
diality must  have  crept  into  it,  inspired  by  his  broad 
shoulders  and  handsome,  swarthy  face,  for  Mr.  Pratt  was 
immediately  encouraged,  and  pounced.  He  broke  away 
from  Trevor  to  Joanna's  side. 

"Oh,  Miss  Godden  ...  so  glad  to  meet  you.  I — I  never 
thanked  you  properly  last  week  for  your  generosity — your 
munificence.  Thought  of  writing,  but  somehow  felt  that 
— felt  that  inadequate.  .  .  .  Mr.  Trevor,  Fve  told  you  about 
Miss  Godden  .  .  .  our  harmonium.  .  .  ." 

He  had  actually  seized  Joanna's  hand.  She  pulled  it 
away.  What  a  wretched,  undersized  little  chap  he  was ! 
She  could  have  borne  his  gratitude  if  only  he  had  been  a 
real  man,  tall  and  dark  and  straight  like  the  young  fellow 
who  was  coming  up  to  her. 

"Please  don't,  Mr.  Pratt.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  make  all 
this  tedious  fuss." 

She  turned  towards  Martin  Trevor  with  a  greeting  in 
her  eyes.  But  to  her  surprise  she  saw  that  he  had  fallen 
back.  The  Rector  had  fallen  back  too,  and  the  two  men 
stood  together,  as  when  she  had  first  come  up  to  them. 

Joanna  realised  that  she  had  missed  the  chance  of  an 
introduction.  Well,  it  didn't  matter.  She  really  couldn't 
endure  Mr.  Pratt  and  his  ghastly  gratitude.  She  put  her 
stiffest  bow  into  practice  and  walked  on. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  11 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  she  tried  to  account  for  young 
Trevor's  mid-week  appearance.  Her  curiosity  was  soon 
satisfied,  though  she  was  at  a  disadvantage  in  having  no 
male  to  bring  her  news  from  the  Woolpack.  However,  she 
made  good  use  of  other  people's  males,  and  by  the  same 
evening  was  possessed  of  the  whole  story.  Martin  Trevor 
had  been  ill  in  London  with  pleurisy,  and  the  doctor  said 
his  lungs  were  in  danger  and  that  he  must  give  up  office 
work  and  lead  an  open-air  life.  He  was  going  to  live  with 
his  father  for  a  time,  and  help  him  farm  North  Farthing 
House — they  were  taking  in  a  bit  more  land  there,  and 
buying  sheep. 

§4 

That  Autumn  the  Farmers'  Club  Dinner  was  held  as 
usual  at  the  Woolpack.  There  had  been  some  controversy 
about  asking  Joanna — there  was  controversy  every  year, 
but  this  year  the  difference  lay  in  the  issue,  for  the  ayes 
had  it. 

The  reasons  for  this  change  were  indefinite — on  the 
whole,  no  doubt,  it  was  because  people  liked  her  better. 
They  had  grown  used  to  her  at  Ansdorc,  where  at  first  her 
mastership  had  shocked  them ;  the  scandal  and  contempt 
aroused  by  the  Socknersh  episode  were  definitely  dead,  and 
men  took  off  their  hats  to  the  strenuousncss  with  which 
she  had  pulled  the  farm  together,  and  faced  a  crisis  that 
would  have  meant  disaster  to  many  of  her  neighbours. 
Ansdore  was  one  of  the  largest  farms  of  the  district,  and 
it  was  absurd  that  it  should  never  be  represented  at  the 
Woolpack  table  merely  on  the  ground  that  its  master  was 
a  woman. 

Of  course,  many  women  wondered  jiow  Joanna  could 
face  such  a  company  of  males,  and  suggestions  were  made 
for  admitting  farmers'  wives  on  this  occasion.  But  Joanna 
was  not  afraid,  and  when  approached  as  to  whether  she 
would  like  other  women  invited,  or  to  bring  a  woman  friend. 


78  JOANNA   GODDEN 

she  declared  that  she  would  be  quite  satisfied  with  the 
inevitable  presence  of  the  landlord's  wife. 

She  realised  that  she  would  be  far  more  imposing  as  the 
only  woman  guest,  and  made  great  preparations  for  a 
proper  display.  Among  these  was  included  the  buying  of 
a  new  gown  at  Folkestone.  She  thought  that  Folkestone, 
being  a  port  for  the  channel  steamers,  would  be  more  likely 
to  have  the  latest  French  fashions  than  the  nearer  towns 
of  Bulverh_ythe  and  Marlingate.  My !  But  she  would  make 
the  Farmers'  Club  sit  up. 

The  dressmaker  at  Folkestone  tried  to  persuade  her  not 
to  have  her  sleeves  lengthened  or  an  extra  fold  of  lace 
arranged  along  the  top  of  her  bodice. 

"Madam  has  such  a  lovely  neck  and  arms — it's  a  pity  to 
cover  them  up — and  it  spoils  the  character  of  the  gown. 
Besides,  Madam,  this  gown  is  not  at  all  extreme — demmy- 
toilet  is  what  it  really  is." 

"I  tell  you  it  won't  do — I'm  going  to  dine  alone  with 
several  gentlemen,  and  it  wouldn't  be  seemly  to  show  such 
a  lot  of  myself." 

It  ended,  to  the  dressmaker's  despair,  in  her  draping  her 
shoulders  in  a  lace  scarf  and  wearing  kid  gloves  to  her 
elbow ;  but  though  these  pruderies  might  have  spoilt  her 
appearance  at  Dungemarsh  Court,  there  was  no  doubt  as 
to  its  effectiveness  at  the  Woolj)ack.  The  whole  room  held 
its  breath  as  she  sailed  in,  with  a  rustic  of  amber  silk  skirts. 
Her  hair  was  piled  high  against  a  tortoise-shell  comb,  mak- 
ing her  statelier  still. 

Furnese  of  Misleham,  who  was  chairman  that  year,  came 
gaping  to  greet  her.  The  others  stared  and  stood  still. 
Most  of  them  were  shocked,  in  spite  of  the  scarf  and  the 
long  gloves,  but  then  it  was  just  like  Joanna  Godden  to 
swing  bravely  through  an  occasion  into  which  most  women 
would  have  crept.  She  saw  that  she  had  made  a  sensation, 
which  she  had  expected  and  desired,  and  her  physical  mod- 
esty being  appeased,   she   had  no  objection  to  the  men's 


1 


JOANNA    GODDEN  79 

following  eyes.  She  saw  that  Sir  Harry  Trevor  was  in 
the  room,  with  his  son  Martin. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  the  Squire  had  been  to  the 
Farmers'  Club  Dinner.  Up  till  then  no  one  had  taken  him 
seriously  as  a  farmer.  For  a  year  or  two  after  his  arrival 
in  the  neighbourhood  he  had  managed  the  North  Farthing 
estate  through  a  bailiff,  and  on  the  latter's  turning  out 
unsatisfactory,  had  dismissed  him,  and  at  the  same  time 
let  off  a  good  part  of  the  land,  keeping  only  a  few  acres 
for  cow-grazing  round  the  house.  Now,  on  his  son's  com- 
ing home  and  requiring  an  outdoor  life,  he  had  given  a 
quarter's  notice  to  the  butcher-grazier  to  whom  he  had 
sublet  his  innings,  had  bought  fifty  head  of  sheep,  and 
joined  the  Farmers'  Club — which  he  knew  would  be  a 
practical  step  to  his  advantage,  as  it  brought  certain  priv- 
ileges in  the  way  of  marketing  and  hiring.  Joanna  was 
glad  to  see  him  at  the  Woolpack,  because  she  knew  that 
there  was  now  a  chance  of  the  introduction  she  had  unfor- 
tunately missed  in  Pedlinge  village  a  few  weeks  ago.  She 
had  a  slight  market-day  acquaintance  with  the  Old  Squire 
— as  the  neighbourhood  invariably  called  him,  to  his  intense 
annoyance — and  now  she  greeted  him  with  her  broad  smile. 

"Good  evening,  Sir  Harry." 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Goddcn.  I'm  pleased  to  see  you 
here.     You're  looking  very  well." 

His  bold  tricky  eyes  swept  over  her,  and  somehow  she 
felt  more  gratified  than  by  all  the  bulging  glances  of  the 
other  men. 

"I'm  pleased  to  see  you  too.  Sir  Harry.  I  hear  you've 
joined  the  Club." 

"Surclye — as  a  real  farmer  ought  to  say  ;  and  so  has  my 
son  Martin — he's  going  to  do  nx)st  of  the  work.  Martin, 
you've  never  met  Miss  Tioridcn.     Let  me  introchice  you." 

Joanna's  welcoming  grin  broke  itself  on  the  young  man's 
stiff  bow.     There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"He  doesn't  look  as  if  a  London  doctor  had  threatened 
him     with     consumption,"     said    the     Squire     banteringly. 


80  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Sometimes  I  really  don't  think  I  believe  it — I  think  he's 
only  come  down  here  so's  he  can  look  after  me." 

JMartin  made  some  conventional  remark.  He  was  a  tall, 
broadly  built  young  man,  with  a  dark  healthy  skin  and  that 
generally  robust  air  which  sometimes  accompanies  extreme 
delicacy  in  men. 

"The  doctor  says  he's  been  overworking,"  continued  his 
father,  "and  that  he  ought  to  try  a  year's  out  door  life  and 
sea  air.  If  you  ask  me,  I  should  say  he'd  overdone  a  good 
many  things  besides  work" — he  threw  the  boy  a  defiant, 
malicious  glance,  rather  like  a  child  who  gets  a  thrust  into 
an  elder.  "But  Walland  Marsh  is  as  good  a  cure  for  over- 
play as  for  overwork.  Not  much  to  keep  him  up  late 
hereabouts,  is  there  Miss  Godden?" 

"I  reckon  it'll  be  twelve  o'clock  before  any  of  us  see  our 
pillows  tonight,"  said  Joanna. 

"Tut !  Tut !  What  terrible  ways  we're  getting  into,  just 
when  I'm  proposing  the  place  as  a  rest-cure.  How  do  you 
feel,  Miss  Godden,  being  the  only  woman  guest?" 

"I  like  it." 

"Bet  you  do — so  do  we." 

Joanna  laughed  and  bridled.  She  felt  proud  of  her 
position — she  pictured  every  farmer's  wife  on  the  marsh 
lying  awake  that  night  so  that  she  could  ask  her  husband 
directly  he  came  upstairs  how  Joanna  Godden  had  looked, 
what  she  had  said,  and  what  she  had  worn. 

§  5 

At  dinner  she  sat  on  the  Chairman's  right.  On  her  other 
side,  owing  to  some  accident  of  push  and  shuffle,  sat  young 
Martin  Trevor.  At  first  she  had  not  thought  his  place 
accidental,  in  spite  of  his  rather  stiff  manner  before  they 
sat  down,  but  after  a  while  she  realised  with  a  pang  of 
vexation  that  he  was  not  particularly  pleased  to  find  him- 
self next  her.  He  replied  without  interest  to  her  remarks 
and   then   entered   into  conversation   with   his   right-hand 


JOANNA    GODDEN  81 

neighbour  on  the  subject  of  roots.  Joanna  was  annoyed — 
she  could  not  put  down  his  constraint  to  shyness,  for  he 
did  not  at  all  strike  her  as  a  shy  young  man.  Nor  was  he 
being  ungracious  to  Mr.  Turner  of  Beckett's  House,  though 
the  latter  could  not  talk  of  turnips  half  so  entertainingly 
as  Joanna  would  have  done.  He  obviously  did  not  want 
to  speak  to  her.  Why? — Because  of  what  had  happened 
in  Pedlinge  all  that  time  ago?  She  remembered  how  he 
had  drawn  back  ...  he  had  not  liked  the  way  she  had 
spoken  to  Mr.  Pratt.  She  had  not  liked  it  herself  by  the 
time  she  got  to  the  road's  turn.  But  to  think  of  him  nurs- 
ing his  feelings  all  this  time  .  .  .  and  something  she  had 
said  to  Mr.  Pratt  .  .  .  considering  that  she  had  bought 
them  all  a  new  harmonium  .  .  .  the  lazy,  stingy  louts  with 
their  half-crowns.  .  .  . 

She  had  lost  her  serenity,  her  sense  of  triumph — she  felt 
vaguely  angry  with  the  whole  company,  and  snapped  at 
Arthur  Alee  when  he  spoke  to  her  across  the  table.  He 
had  asked  after  Ellen,  knowing  she  had  been  to  Folkestone. 

"Ellen's  fine — and  learning  such  good  manners  as  it 
seems  a  shame  to  bring  her  into  these  parts  at  Christmas 
for  her  to  lose  'em." 

"On  the  other  hand,  Miss  Goddcn,  she  might  impart 
them  to  us,"  said  the  Squire  from  a  little  further  down. 

"She's  learning  how  to  dance  and  make  curtsies  right 
down  to  the  floor,"  said  Joanna. 

"Then  she's  fit  to  sec  the  Queen.  You  really  mustn't 
keep  her  away  from  us  at  Christmas — on  the  contrary  we 
ought  to  make  some  opportunities  for  watching  her  dance; 
she  must  be  as  pretty  as  a  s'prite." 

"That  she  is,"  agreed  Joanna,  warming  and  mollified, 
"and  I've  bought  her  a  new  gown  that  pulls  out  like  an 
accordion,  so  as  she  can  wave  her  skirts  about  when  she 
dances." 

"Well,  the  drawing-room  at  North  Farthing  would  make 
an  excellent  ball-room  ,  .  .  we  must  see  about  that — eh, 
Martin?" 


82  JOANNA   GODDEN 

"It'll  want  a  new  floor  laid  down — there's  rot  under  the 
carpet,"  was  his  son's  disheartening  reply.  But  Joanna  had 
lost  the  smarting  of  her  own  wound  in  the  glow  of  her 
pride  for  Ellen,  and  she  ate  the  rest  of  her  dinner  in  good- 
humoured  contempt  for  Martin  Trevor. 

When  the  time  for  the  speeches  came  her  health  was 
proposed  by  the  Chairman. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "let  us  drink  to — the  Lady." 

The  chivalry  of  the  Committee  had  prompted  them  to 
offer  her  Southland  to  respond  to  this  toast.  But  Joanna 
had  doubts  of  his  powers  as  an  orator,  whereas  she  had 
none  of  her  own.  She  stood  up,  a  glow  of  amber  bright- 
ness above  all  the  black  coats,  and  spoke  of  her  gratification, 
of  her  work  at  Ansdore  and  hopes  for  south-country  farm- 
ing. Her  speech,  as  might  have  been  expected,  was  highly 
dogmatic.  She  devoted  her  last  words  to  the  marsh  as  a 
grain-bearing  district — on  one  or  two  farms,  where  pasture 
had  been  broken,  the  yield  in  wheat  had  been  found  excel- 
lent. Since  that  was  so,  why  had  so  few  farms  hitherto 
shown  enterprise  in  this  direction?  There  was  no  denying 
that  arable  paid  better  than  pasture,  and  the  only  excuse 
for  neglecting  it  was  poverty  of  soil.  It  was  obvious  that 
no  such  poverty  existed  here — on  the  contrary,  the  soil  was 
rich,  and  yet  no  crops  were  grown  in  it  except  roots  and 
here  and  there  a  few  acres  of  beans  or  lucerne.  It  was  the 
old  idea,  she  supposed,  about  breaking  up  grass.  It  was 
time  that  old  idea  was  bust — she  herself  would  lead  the 
way  at  Ansdore  next  Spring. 

As  she  was  the  guest  of  the  evening,  they  heard  her  with 
respect,  which  did  not,  however,  survive  her  departure  at 
the  introduction  of  pipes  and  port. 

"Out  on  the  rampage  again,  is  she?"  said  Southland  to 
his  neighbour. 

"Well,  if  she  busts  that  'old  idea'  same  as  she  bust  the 
other  'old  idea'  about  crossing  Kent  sheep,  all  I  can  say  is 
that  it's  Ansdore  she'll  bust  next." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  83 

"Whosumdever  breaks  pasture  shall  himself  be  broke," 
said  Vine  oracularly. 

"Surelye — surelye,"  assented  the  table. 

"She's  got  pluck  all  the  same,"  said  Sir  Harry, 

But  he  was  only  an  amateur. 

"I  don't  hold  for  a  woman  to  have  pluck,"  said  Vennal 
of  Beggar's  Bush,  "what  d'you  say,  Mr.  Alee?" 

"I  say  nothing,  Mr.  Vennal." 

"Pluck  makes  a  woman  think  she  can  do  without  a  man," 
continued  Vennal,  "when  everyone  knows,  and  it's  in  Scrip- 
ture, that  she  can't.  Now  Joanna  Godden  should  ought  to 
have  married  drackly  minute  Thomas  Godden  died  and 
left  her  Ansdore,  instead  of  which  she's  gone  on  plunging 
like  a  heifer  till  she  must  be  past  eight  and  twenty  as  I 
calculate — " 

"Now,  now,  Mr.  Vennal,  we  mustn't  start  anything  per- 
sonal of  our  lady  guest,"  broke  in  Furnese  from  the  Chair, 
"we  may  take  up  her  ideas  or  take  'em  down,  but  while 
she's  the  guest  of  this  here  Farmers'  Club,  which  is  till 
eleven-thirty  precise,  we  mustn't  start  arguing  about  her 
age  or  matrimonious  intentions.  Anyways,  I  take  it,  that's 
a  job  for  our  wives." 

"Hear,  hear — "  and  Joanna  passed  out  of  the  conversa- 
tion, for  who  was  going  to  waste  time  cither  taking  up  or 
taking  down  a  silly,  tedious,  foreign,  unsensible  notion  like 
ploughing  grass?  .  .  . 

Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  her  glory  had  gone  up  in 
smoke — the  smoke  of  twenty  long  churchwarden  pipes. 

She  had  been  obliged  to  leave  the  table  just  when  it  was 
becoming  most  characteristic  and  convivial,  and  to  retire 
forlorn  and  chilly  in  her  silken  gown  to  the  Woolpack  par- 
lour, where  she  and  the  landlady  drank  innumerable  cups 
of  tea.  It  was  an  unwelcome  reminder  of  the  fact  that 
.she  was  a  woman,  anrl  tliat  no  matter  how  she  might  shine 
and  impress  the  company  for  an  hour,  she  did  not  really 
belong  to  it.  She  was  a  guest,  not  a  naembcr,  of  the 
Farmers'  Club,  and  though  a  guest  has  more  honour,  he 


84  JOANNA    GODDEN 

has  less  fellowship  and  fun.  It  was  for  fellowship  and  fun 
that  she  hungrily  longed  as  she  sat  under  the  green  lamp- 
shade of  the  Woolpack's  parlour,  and  discoursed  on  servants 
and  the  price  of  turkeys  with  Mrs.  Jupp,  who  was  rather 
constrained  and  absent-minded  owing  to  her  simultaneous 
efforts  to  price  Miss  Godden's  gown.  Now  and  then  a  dull 
roar  of  laughter  came  to  her  from  the  Club-room.  What 
were  they  talking  about,  Joanna  wondered.  Had  there  been 
much  debate  over  her  remarks  on  breaking  pasture?  .  .  . 

§6 

On  the  whole,  the  Farmers'  Club  Dinner  left  behind  it 
a  rankling  trail — for  one  thing,  it  was  not  followed  as  she 
had  hoped  and  half  expected  by  an  invitation  to  join  the 
Farmers'  Club.  No,  they  would  never  have  a  woman  priv- 
ileged among  them — she  realised  that,  in  spite  of  her  suc- 
cess, certain  doors  would  always  be  shut  on  her.  The  men 
would  far  rather  open  those  doors  ceremonially  now  and 
then  than  allow  her  to  go  freely  in  and  out.  After  all, 
perhaps  they  were  right — hadn't  she  got  her  own  rooms 
that  they  were  shut  out  of  ?  .  .  .  Women  were  always  dif- 
ferent from  men,  even  if  they  did  the  same  things  .  .  ,  she 
had  heard  people  talk  of  "woman's  sphere."  What  did  that 
mean?  A  husband  and  children,  of  course — any  fool  could 
tell  you  that.  When  you  had  a  husband  and  children,  you 
didn't  go  round  knocking  at  the  men's  doors,  but  shut  your- 
self up  snugly  inside  your  own  .  .  .  you  were  warm  and 
cosy,  and  the  firelight  played  on  the  ceiling.  .  .  .  But  if 
you  were  alone  inside  your  room — with  no  husband  or  child 
to  keep  you  company  .  .  .  then  it  was  terrible,  worse  than 
being  outside  .  .  .  and  no  wonder  you  went  round  to  the 
men's  doors,  and  knocked  on  them  and  begged  them  to  give 
you  a  little  company,  or  something  to  do  to  help  you  to 
forget  your  empty  room.  .  .  . 

"Well,  I  could  marry  Arthur  Alee  any  day  I  liked,"  she 
thought  to  herself. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  85 

But  somehow  that  did  not  seem  any  solution  to  the  prob- 
lem. 

She  thought  of  one  or  two  other  men  who  had  approached 
her,  but  had  been  scared  off  before  they  had  reached  any 
definite  position  of  courtship.  They  were  no  good,  either 
— young  Cobb  of  Slinches  had  married  six  months  ago,  and 
Jack  Abbot  of  Stock  Bridge  belonged  to  the  Christian  Be- 
lievers, who  kept  Sunday  on  Saturday  and  in  other  ways 
fathered  confusion.  Besides,  she  didn't  want  to  marry  just 
anyone  who  would  have  her — some  dull  yeoman  who  would 
take  her  away  from  Ansdore,  or  else  come  with  all  his 
stupid,  antiquated,  man-made  notions  to  sit  forever  on 
her  enterprising  acres.  She  wanted  her  marriage  to  be 
some  big,  romantic  adventure — she  wanted  either  to  marry 
someone  above  herself  in  birth  and  station,  or  else  very 
much  below.  She  had  touched  the  fringe  of  the  latter 
experience  and  found  it  disappointing,  so  she  felt  that  she 
would  now  prefer  the  other — she  would  like  to  marry  some 
man  of  the  upper  classes,  a  lawyer  or  a  parson  or  a  squire. 
The  two  first  were  represented  in  her  mind  by  Mr.  Hux- 
table  and  Mr.  Pratt,  and  she  did  not  linger  over  them,  but 
the  image  she  had  put  up  for  the  third  was  Martin  Trevor 
— dark,  tall,  well-born,  comely  and  strong  of  frame,  and 
yet  with  that  hidden  delicacy,  that  weakness  which  Joanna 
must  have  in  a  man  if  she  was  to  love  him.  .  .  . 

She  had  been  a  fool  about  Martin  Trevor — she  had  man- 
aged to  put  him  against  her  at  the  start.  Of  course  it  was 
silly  of  him  to  mind  what  she  said  to  Mr.  Pratt,  but  that 
didn't  alter  the  fact  that  she  had  l>cen  stupid  herself,  that 
she  had  failed  to  make  a  good  impression  just  when  she 
most  wanted  to  do  so.  Martin  Trc-vor  was  the  sort  of 
man  she  felt  she  could  "take  to,"  for  in  addition  to  his  looks 
he  had  the  quality  she  prizerl  in  males — the  quality  of  in- 
experience;  he  was  not  likely  to  meddle  with  her  ways, 
since  he  was  only  a  beginner  and  would  probably  be  glad 
of  her  superior  knowledge  anrl  judgment.  He  would  give 
her  what  she  wanted — his  good  name  and  his  good  looks 


86  JOANNA    GODDEN 

and  her  neighbours'  envious  confusion — and  she  would  give 
him  what  he  wanted,  her  prosperity  and  her  experience. 
North  Farthing  House  was  poorer  than  Ansdore  in  spite 
of  late  dinners  and  drawing-rooms — the  Trevors  could  look 
down  on  her  from  the  point  of  view  of  birth  and  breeding 
but  not  from  any  advantage  more  concrete. 

As  for  herself,  for  her  own  warm,  vigorous,  vital  per- 
son— with  that  curious  naivety  which  was  part  of  her  un- 
awakened  state,  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  throw  herself 
into  the  balance  when  Ansdore  was  already  making  North 
Farthing  kick  the  beam.  She  thought  of  taking  a  husband 
as  she  thought  of  taking  a  farm-hand — as  a  m.atter  of  bar- 
gaining, of  offering  substantial  benefits  in  exchange  for 
substantial  services.  If  in  a  secondary  way  she  was  moved 
by  romantic  considerations,  that  was  also  true  of  her  engage- 
ment of  her  male  servants.  Just  as  she  saw  her  future 
husband  in  his  possibilities  as  a  farm-hand,  in  his  relations 
to  Ansdore,  so  she  could  not  help  seeing  every  farm-hand 
in  his  possibilities  as  a  husband,  in  his  relations  to  herself. 


§7 

Martin  Trevor  would  have  been  surprised  had  he  known 
himself  the  object  of  so  much  intention.  His  attitude 
towards  Joanna  was  one  of  indifference  based  on  dislike — 
her  behaviour  towards  Mr.  Pratt  had  disgusted  him  at  the 
start,  but  his  antipathy  was  not  all  built  on  that  foundation. 
During  the  months  he  had  been  at  home,  he  had  heard  a 
good  deal  about  her — indeed  he  had  found  her  rather  a 
dominant  personality  on  the  Marsh — and  what  he  had  heard 
had  not  helped  turn  him  from  his  first  predisposition  against 
her. 

As  a  young  boy  he  had  shared  his  brother's  veneration 
of  the  Madonna,  and  though,  when  he  grew  up,  his  natural 
romanticism  had  not  led  him  his  brother's  way,  the  boyish 
ideal  had  remained,  and  unconsciously  all  his  later  attitude 


JOANNA    GODDEN  87 

towards  women  was  tinged  with  it.  Joanna  was  certainly 
not  the  Madonna  type,  and  all  Martin's  soul  revolted  from 
her  broad,  bustling  ways — everywhere  he  went  he  heard 
stories  of  her  busyness  and  her  bluflF,  of  "what  she  had 
said  to  old  Southland,"  or  "the  sass  she  had  given  Vine." 
She  seemed  to  him  to  be  an  arrant,  pushing  baggage,  run- 
ning after  notoriety  and  display.  Her  rudeness  to  Mr. 
Pratt  was  only  part  of  the  general  parcel.  He  looked  upon 
her  as  sexless,  too,  and  he  hated  women  to  be  sexless — his 
Madonna  was  not  after  Memling  but  after  Raphael. 
Though  he  heard  constant  gossip  about  her  farming  activi- 
ties and  her  dealings  at  market,  he  heard  none  about  her 
passions,  the  likelier  subject.  All  he  knew  was  that  she 
had  been  expected  for  years  to  marry  Arthur  Alee,  but 
had  not  done  so,  and  that  she  had  also  been  expected  at 
one  time  to  marry  her  looker,  but  had  not  done  so.  The 
root  of  such  romances  must  be  poor  indeed  if  this  was  all 
the  flower  that  gossip  could  give  them. 

Altogether,  he  was  prejudiced  against  Joanna  Godden, 
and  the  prejudice  did  not  go  deep  enough  to  beget  interest. 
He  was  not  interested  in  her,  and  did  not  expect  her  to  be 
interested  in  him ;  therefore  it  was  with  great  surprise,  not 
to  say  consternation,  that  one  morning  at  New  Romncy 
Market  he  saw  her  bearing  down  upon  him  with  the  light 
of  battle  in  her  eye. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Trevor." 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Godden." 

"Fine  weather." 

"Fine  weather." 

He  would  have  passed  on,  but  she  barred  the  way,  rather 
an  imposing  figure  in  her  bottle-grccn  driving  coat,  with  a 
fur  toque  pressed  down  over  the  flying  chestnut  of  her 
hair.  Her  cheeks  were  not  so  much  coloured  as  stained 
deep  with  the  sun  and  wind  of  Walland  Marsh,  and  though 
it  was  November,  a  mass  of  little  freckles  smudged  and 
scattered  over  her  skin.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  before 
that  she  was  even  a  good-looking  creature. 


88  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"I'm  thinking,  Mr.  Trevor,"  she  said  deliberately,  "that 
you  and  me  aren't  liking  each  other  as  much  as  we  should 
ought." 

"Really,  Miss  Godden.  I  don't  see  why  you  need  say 
that." 

"Well,  we  don't  like  each  other,  do  we?  Leastways,  you 
don't  like  me.  Now — "  lifting  a  large,  well-shaped  hand — 
"you  needn't  gainsay  me,  for  I  know  what  you  think.  You 
think  I  was  middling  rude  to  Mr.  Pratt  in  Pedlinge  Street 
that  day  I  first  met  you — and  so  I  think  myself,  and  I'm 
sorry,  and  Mr.  Pratt  knows  it.  He  came  around  two  weeks 
back  to  ask  about  Milly  Pump,  my  chicken  gal,  getting  con- 
firmed, and  I  told  him  I  liked  him  and  his  ways  so  much 
that  he  could  confirm  the  lot,  gals  and  men — even  old  Stup- 
peny  who  says  he's  been  done  already,  but  I  say  it  don't 
matter,  since  he's  so  old  that  it's  sure  to  have  worn  off  by 
this  time." 

Martin  stared  at  her  with  his  mouth  open. 

"So  I  say  as  I've  done  proper  by  Mr.  Pratt,"  she  con- 
tinued, her  voice  rising  to  a  husky  flurry,  "for  I'll  have  to 
give  'em  all  a  day  off  to  get  confirmed  in,  and  that'll  be  a 
tedious  affair  for  me.  However,  I  don't  grudge  it,  if  it'll 
make  things  up  between  us — between  you  and  me,  I'm 
meaning." 

"But,  I — I — that  is,  you've  made  a  mistake — your  be- 
haviour to  Mr.  Pratt  is  no  concern  of  mine." 

He  was  getting  terribly  embarrassed — this  dreadful 
woman,  what  would  she  say  next?  Unconsciously  yielding 
to  a  nervous  habit,  he  took  off  his  cap  and  violently  rubbed 
up  his  hair  the  wrong  way.  The  action  somehow'  appealed 
to  Joanna. 

"But  it  is  your  concern,  I  reckon — you've  shown  me  plain 
that  it  is.  I  could  see  you  were  offended  at  the  Farmers' 
Dinner." 

A  qualm  of  compunction  smote  Martin. 

"You're  showing  me  that  I've  been  jolly  rude." 

"Well,   I   won't   say  you  haven't,"   said   Joanna   affably. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  89 

"Still  you've  had  reason.  I  reckon  no  one  ud  like  me  better 
for  behaving  rude  to  Mr.  Pratt.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  damn  Mr.  Pratt!"  cried  Martin,  completely  losing 
his  head — "I  tell  you  I  don't  care  tuppence  what  you  or 
anyone  says  or  does  to  him." 

"Then  you  should  ought  to  care,  Mr.  Trevor,"  said 
Joanna  staidly,  "not  that  I've  any  right  to  tell  you,  seeing 
how  I've  behaved.  But  at  least  I  gave  him  a  harmonium 
first — it's  only  that  I  couldn't  abide  the  fuss  he  made  of 
his  thanks.  I  like  doing  things  for  folks,  but  I  can't  abide 
their  making  fools  of  themselves  and  me  over  it." 

Trevor  had  become  miserably  conscious  that  they  were 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  that  Joanna  was  not 
inconspicuous,  and  if  she  had  been,  her  voice  would  have 
made  up  for  it.  lie  could  see  people — gaitered  farmers, 
clay-booted  farm-hands — staring  at  them  from  the  pave- 
ment. He  suddenly  felt  himself — not  without  justification 
— the  chief  spectacle  of  Romney  market-day. 

"Please  don't  think  about  it  any  more,  Miss  Goddcn," 
he  said  hurriedly.  "I  certainly  should  never  presume  to 
question  anj-thing  you  ever  said  or  did  to  Mr.  Pratt  or 
anybody  else.  And,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I  must  go  on — 
I'm  a  farmer  now,  you  know,"  with  a  ghastly  attempt  at 
a  smile,  "and  I've  plenty  of  business  in  the  market." 

"Reckon  you  have,"  said  Joanna,  her  voice  suddenly  fall- 
ing flat. 

He  snatched  ofT  his  cap  and  left  her  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  street, 

§8 

lie  did  not  let  himself  think  of  licr  for  an  hour  or  more 
— the  episode  struck  liim  as  grotesque  and  he  preferred 
not  to  dwell  on  it.  But  after  he  had  done  his  business  of 
buying  a  farm  horse,  with  the  hclj)  of  Mr.  SoiUlilanrl  who^ 
was  befriending  his  inexjiericncc,  he  found  himself  laugh- 
ing quietly,  and  he  suddenly  knew   that  he   was   laughing 


90  JOANNA   GODDEN 

over  the  interview  with  Joanna.  And  directly  he  had 
laughed,  he  was  quaintly  smitten  with  a  sense  of  pathos — 
her  bustle  and  self-confidence  which  hitherto  had  roused 
his  dislike,  now  showed  as  something  rather  pathetic,  a 
mere  trapping  of  feminine  weakness  which  would  deceive 
no  one  who  saw  them  at  close  quarters.  Under  her  loud 
voice,  her  almost  barbaric  appearance,  her  queerly  truculent 
manner,  was  a  naive  mixture  of  child  and  woman — soft, 
simple,  eager  to  please.  He  knew  of  no  other  woman  who 
would  have  given  herself  away  quite  so  directly  and  nat- 
urally as  she  had  .  .  .  and  his  manhood  was  flattered.  He 
was  far  from  suspecting  the  practical  nature  of  her  inten- 
tions, but  he  could  see  that  she  liked  him,  and  wanted  to 
stand  in  his  favour.  She  was  not  sexless,  after  all.  This 
realisation  softened  and  predisposed  him;  he  felt  a  little 
contrite,  too — he  remembered  how  her  voice  had  suddenly 
dragged  and  fallen  fiat  at  his  abrupt  farewell  .  .  .  she  was 
disappointed  in  his  reception  of  her  offers  of  peace — she 
had  been  incapable  of  appreciating  the  attitude  his  sophisti- 
cation was  bound  to  take  up  in  the  face  of  such  an  outburst. 
She  had  proved  herself,  too,  a  generous  soul — frankly 
owning  herself  in  the  wrong  and  trying  by  every  means 
to  make  atonement  .  .  .  few  women  would  have  been  at 
once  so  frank  and  so  practical  in  their  repentance.  That 
he  suspected  the  repentance  was  largely  for  his  sake  did 
not  diminish  his  respect  of  it.  When  he  met  Joanna  God- 
den  again,  he  would  be  nice  to  her. 

The  opportunity  was  given  him  sooner  than  he  expected. 
Walking  up  the  High  Street  in  quest  of  some  quiet  place 
for  luncheon — every  shop  and  inn  seemed  full  of  thick 
smells  of  pipes  and  beer  and  thick  noises  of  agricultural 
and  political  discussion  conducted  with  the  mouth  full — 
he  saw  Miss  Godden's  trap  waiting  for  her  outside  the  New 
Inn.  He  recognised  her  equipage,  not  so  much  from  its 
make  or  from  the  fat  cob  in  the  shafts,  as  from  the  figure 
of  old  Stuppeny  dozing  at  Smiler's  head.  Old  Stuppeny 
went  everywhere  with  Miss  Godden,  being  now  quite  unfit 


JOANNA    GODDEN  91 

for  work  on  the  farm.  His  appearance  was  peculiar,  for 
he  seemed,  like  New  Romney  church  tower,  to  be  built  in 
stages.  He  wore,  as  a  farm-labourer  of  the  older  sort,  a 
semi-clerical  hat,  which  with  his  long  white  beard  gave  him 
down  to  the  middle  of  his  chest  resemblance  to  that  type 
still  haunting  the  chapels  of  marsh  villages  and  known  as 
Aged  Evangelist — from  his  chest  to  his  knees,  he  was  mul- 
berry coat  and  brass  buttons.  Miss  Joanna  Godden's  coach- 
man, though  as  the  vapours  of  the  marsh  had  shaped  him 
into  a  shepherd's  crook,  his  uniform  lost  some  of  its  effect. 
Downwards  from  the  bottom  of  his  coat  he  was  just  a 
farm-labourer,  with  feet  of  clay  and  corduroy  trousers  tied 
with  string. 

His  presence  showed  that  Miss  Godden  was  inside  the 
New  Inn,  eating  her  dinner,  probably  finishing  it,  or  he 
would  not  have  brought  the  trap  around.  It  was  just  like 
her,  thought  Martin,  with  a  tolerant  twist  to  his  smile,  to 
go  to  the  most  public  and  crowded  place  in  Romney  for 
her  meal,  instead  of  shrinking  into  the  decent  quiet  of  some 
shop.  But  Joanna  Godden  had  done  more  for  herself  in 
that  interview  than  she  had  thought,  for  though  she  still 
repelled,  she  was  no  longer  uninteresting.  Martin  gave  up 
searching  for  that  quiet  meal,  and  walked  into  the  New  Inn. 
He  found  Joanna  sitting  at  a  table  by  herself,  finishing 
a  cup  of  tea.  The  big  table  was  edged  on  both  sides  with 
farmers,  graziers  and  butchers,  while  the  small  tables  were 
also  occupied,  so  there  was  not  much  need  for  his  apologies 
as  he  sat  down  opposite  her.  Her  face  kindled  at  once — 
"I'm  sorry  I'm  .so  near  finished." 

She  was  a  grudgeless  soul,  and  Martin  almost  liked  her. 
"Have  you  done  much  business  today?" 
"Not  much.      I'm  going  home  as  soon  as   I've  had  my 
dinner.     Are  you  stopping  long?" 

"Till  I've  done  a  bit  of  shopping" — he  found  himself 
slipping  into  the  homeliness  of  her  tongue — "I  want  a  good 
spade  and  some  harness." 

"I'll    tell    you   a   good   shop    for   harness.  .  .  ."     Joanna 


92  .        JOANNA    GODDEN 

loved  enlightening  ignorance  and  guiding  inexperience,  and 
Avhile  Martin's  chop  and  potatoes  were  being  brought  she 
held  forth  on  different  makes  of  harness  and  called  spades 
spades  untiringl3^  He  listened  without  rancour,  for  he 
was  beginning  to  like  her  very  much.  His  liking  was 
largely  physical — he  wouldn't  have  believed  a  month  ago 
that  he  should  ever  find  Joanna  Godden  attractive,  but 
today  the  melting  of  his  prejudice  seemed  to  come  chiefly 
from  her  warm  beauty,  from  the  rich  colouring  of  her  face 
and  the  flying  sunniness  of  her  hair,  from  her  wide  mouth 
with  its  wide  smile,  from  the  broad,  strong  set  of  her 
shoulders,  and  the  sturdy  tenderness  of  her  breast. 

She  saw  that  he  had  changed.  His  manner  was  different, 
more  cordial  and  simple — the  difference  between  his  cold- 
ness and  his  warmth  was  greater  than  in  many,  for  like 
most  romantics  he  had  found  himself  compelled  at  an  early 
age  to  put  on  armour,  and  the  armour  was  stiff  and  dis- 
guising in  proportion  to  the  lightness  and  grace  of  the  body 
within.  Not  that  he  and  Joanna  talked  of  light  and  grace- 
ful things  .  .  .  they  talked,  after  spades  and  harness,  of 
horses  and  sheep,  and  of  her  ideas  on  breaking  up  grass, 
which  was  to  be  a  practical  scheme  at  Ansdore  that  Spring, 
in  spite  of  the  neighbours,  of  the  progress  of  the  new  rail- 
way from  Lydd  to  Appledore,  of  the  advantages  and  dis- 
advantages of  growing  lucerne.  But  the  barrier  was  down 
between  them,  and  he  knew  that  they  were  free,  if  they 
chose,  to  go  on  from  horses  and  sheep  and  railways  and 
crops  to  more  daring,  intimate  things,  and  because  of  that 
same  freedom  they  stuck  to  the  homely  topics,  like  people 
who  are  free  to  leave  the  fireside  but  wait  till  the  sun  is 
warmer  on  the  grass. 

He  had  begun  his  apple-tart  before  she  rose. 

"Well,  I  must  be  getting  back  now.  Goodbye,  Mr.  Tre- 
vor. If  you  should  ever  happen  to  pass  Ansdore,  drop  in 
and  I'll  give  you  a  cup  of  tea." 

He  was  well  aware  that  the  whole  room  had  heard  this 
valediction.     He   saw   some  of  the  men  smiling  at  each 


JOANNA    GODDEN  93 

other,  but  he  was  not  annoyed.  He  rose  and  went  with 
her  to  the  door,  where  she  hugged  herself  into  her  big 
driving  coat.  Something  about  her  made  him  feel  big 
enough  to  ignore  the  small  gossip  of  the  marsh. 

§9 

He  liked  her  now — he  told  himself  that  she  was  good 
common  stuff.  She  was  like  some  sterling  homespun  piece, 
strong  and  sweet-smelling — she  was  like  a  plot  of  the  marsh 
earth,  soft  and  rich  and  alive.  He  had  forgotten  her 
barbaric  tendency,  the  eccentricity  of  looks  and  conduct 
which  had  at  first  repelled  him — that  aspect  had  melted  in 
the  unsuspected  warmth  and  softness  he  had  found  in  her. 
Pie  had  been  mistaken  as  to  her  sexlessness — she  was  alive 
all  through.  She  was  still  far  removed  from  his  type,  but 
her  fundamental  simplicity  had  brought  her  nearer  to  it, 
and  in  time  his  good  will  would  bring  her  the  rest  of  the 
way.  Anyhow,  he  would  look  forward  to  meeting  her 
again  —  perhaps  he  would  call  at  Ansdore,  as  she  had 
proposed. 

Joanna  was  not  blind  to  her  triumph,  and  it  carried  her 
beyond  her  actual  attainment  into  the  fulfilment  of  her 
hopes.  She  saw  Martin  Trevor  already  as  her  suitor — 
respectful,  interested,  receptive  of  her  wisdom  in  the  mat- 
ter of  spades.  She  rejoiced  in  her  courage  in  having  taken 
the  first  step — she  would  not  have  much  further  to  go  now. 
Now  that  she  had  overcome  his  initial  dislike,  the  advan- 
tages of  the  alliance  must  be  obvious  to  liini.  She  looked 
into  the  future,  and  between  the  present  moment  and  the 
consummated  union  of  North  Farthing  and  Ansdore,  she 
saw  thrilling,  half-dim,  personal  adventures  for  Martin  and 
Joanna  .  .  .  the  touch  of  his  hands  would  be  quite  different 
from  the  touch  of  Arthur  Alce's  .  .  .  and  his  lips — she 
had  never  wanted  a  man's  lips  before,  except  perhaps 
Socknersh's  for  one  wild,  misbegotten  minute  .  .  .  she  held 
in    her   heart    the    picture   of    Martin's    well-cut,    sensitive 


94  JOANNA    GODDEN 

mouth,  so  unlike  the  usual  mouths  of  Brodnyx  and  Pedlinge, 
which  were  either  coarse-lipped  or  no-lipped  .  .  .  Martin's 
mouth  was  wonderful — it  would  be  like  fire  on  hers.  .  .  . 

Thus  Joanna  rummaged  in  her  small  stock  of  experience, 
and  of  the  fragments  built  a  dream.  Her  plans  were  not 
now  all  concrete — they  glowed  a  little,  though  dimly,  for 
her  memory  held  no  great  store,  and  her  imagination  was 
the  imagination  of  Walland  Marsh,  as  a  barndoor  fowl  to 
the  birds  that  fly.  She  might  have  dreamed  more  if  her 
mind  had  not  been  occupied  with  the  practical  matter  of 
welcoming  Ellen  home  for  her  Christmas  holidays. 

Ellen  arrived  on  Thomas-day,  and  already  seemed  in 
some  strange  way  to  have  grown  apart  from  the  life  of 
Ansdore.  As  Joanna  eagerly  kissed  her  on  the  platform  at 
Rye,  there  seemed  something  alien  in  her  soft  cool  cheek, 
in  the  smoothness  of  her  hair  under  the  dark  boater  hat 
with  its  deviced  hat-band. 

"Hullo,  Joanna,"  she  said. 

"Hullo,  dearie.  I've  just  about  been  pining  to  get  you 
back.  How  are  you? — how's  your  dancing?" — This  as  she 
bundled  up  beside  her  in  the  trap,  while  the  porter  helped 
old  Stuppeny  with  her  trunk. 

"I  can  dance  the  waltz  and  the  polka." 

"That's  fine — I've  promised  the  folks  around  here  that 
you  shall  show  'em  what  you  can  do." 

She  gave  Ellen  another  warm,  proud  hug,  and  this  time 
the  child's  coolness  melted  a  little.  She  rubbed  her  im- 
maculate cheek  against  her  sister's  sleeve — 

"Good  old  Jo  .  .  ." 

Thus  they  drove  home  at  peace  together. 

The  peace  was  shattered  many  times  between  that  day 
and  Christmas.  Ellen  had  forgotten  what  it  was  like  to  be 
slapped  and  what  it  was  like  to  receive  big  smacking  kisses 
at  odd  encounters  in  yard  or  passage — she  resented  both 
equally.  "You're  like  an  old  bear,  Jo — an  awful  old  bear." 
She  had  picked  up  at  school  a  new  vocabulary,  of  which 
the  word  "awful,"  used  to  express  every  quality  of  pleasure 


JOANNA    GODDEN  95 

or  pain,  was  a  fair  sample.     Joanna  sometimes  could  not 
understand  her — sometimes  she  understood  too  well. 

"I  sent  you  to  school  to  be  made  a  little  lady  of,  and  here 
you  come  back  speaking  worse  than  a  national  child." 

"All  the  girls  talk  like  that  at  school." 

"Then  seemingly  it  was  a  waste  to  send  you  there,  since 
you  could  have  learned  bad  manners  cheaper  at  home." 

"But  the  mistresses  don't  allow  it,"  said  Ellen,  in  hasty 
fear  of  being  taken  away,  "you  get  a  bad  mark  if  you  say 
'damn.'  " 

"I  should  just  about  think  you  did,  and  I'd  give  you  a 
good  spanking  too.  I  never  heard  such  language — no,  not 
even  at  the  Woolpack." 

Ellen  gave  her  peculiar,  alien  smile.  i 

"You're  awfully  old-fashioned,  Jo." 

"Old-fashioned,  am  I,  because  I  don't  go  against  my 
catechism  and  take  the  Lord's  name  in  vain?" 

"Yes,  you  do — every  time  you  say  'Lord  sakes'  you  take 
the  Lord's  name  in  vain,  and  it's  common  into  tlie  bargain." 

Here  Joanna  lost  her  temper  and  boxed  Ellen's  ears, 

"You  dare  say  I'm  common !  So  that's  what  you  learn 
at  school? — to  come  home  and  call  your  sister  common. 
Well,  if  I'm  common,  you're  cominon  too,  since  we're  the 
same  blood." 

"I  never  said  you  were  common,"  sobbed  Ellen — "and 
you  really  are  a  beast,  hitting  me  about.     No  wonder  I  like, 
school  better  than  home  if  that's  how  you  treat  me." 

Joanna  declared  with  violence  if  that  was  how  she 
felt  she  should  never  see  school  again,  whereupon  Ellen 
screamed  and  sobbed  herself  into  a  pale,  quiet,  tragic  state — 
lying  back  in  her  chair,  her  face  patchy  with  crying,  her 
head  falling  queerly  sideways  like  a  broken  doll's — till 
Joanna,  scared  and  contrite,  assured  her  that  she  had  not 
meant  her  threat  seriously,  and  that  Ellen  .should  stop  at 
school  as  long  as  she  was  a  good  girl  and  minded  her 
sister. 

This  sort  of  thing  had  happened  every  holiday,  but  Uiere 


96  JOANNA    GODDEN 

were  also  brighter  aspects,  and  on  the  whole  Joanna  was 
proud  of  her  little  sister  and  pleased  with  the  results  of 
the  step  she  had  taken.  Ellen  could  not  only  dance  and 
drop  beautiful  curtsies,  but  she  could  play  tunes  on  the 
piano,  and  recite  poetry.  She  could  ask  for  things  in 
French  at  table,  could  give  startling  information  about  the 
Kings  of  England  and  the  exports  and  imports  of  Jamaica, 
and  above  all  accomplishments,  she  showed  a  welcome 
alacrity  to  display  them,  so  that  her  sister  could  always 
rely  on  her  for  credit  and  glory. 

"When  Martin  Trevor  comes,  I'll  make  her  say  her  piece." 

§  10 

Martin  came  on  Christmas  Day.  He  knew  that  the  feast 
would  lend  a  special  significance  to  the  visit,  but  he  did 
not  care;  for  in  absence  he  had  idealised  Joanna  into  a 
fit  subject  for  flirtation.  He  had  no  longer  any  wish  to 
meet  her  on  the  level  footing  of  friendship — besides,  he 
was  already  beginning  to  feel  lonely  on  the  marsh,  to  long 
for  the  glow  of  some  romance  to  warm  the  fogs  that  filled 
his  landscape.  In  spite  of  his  father's  jeers,  he  was  no 
monk,  and  generally  had  some  sentimental  adventure  keep- 
ing his  soul  alive — but  he  was  fastidious  and  rather  bizarre 
in  his  likings,  and  since  he  had  come  to  North  Farthing, 
no  one,  either  in  his  own  class  or  out  of  it,  had  appealed 
to  him,  except  Joanna  Godden. 

She  owed  part  of  her  attraction  to  the  surviving  salt 
of  his  dislike.  There  was  still  a  savour  of  antagonism  in 
his  liking  of  her.  Also  his  curiosity  was  still  unsatisfied. 
Was  that  undercurrent  of  softness  genuine?  Was  she 
really  simple  and  tender  under  her  hard  flaunting?  Was 
she  passionate  under  her  ignorance  and  naivety?  Only 
experiment  could  show  him,  and  he  meant  to  investigate, 
not  merely  for  the  barren  satisfaction  of  his  curiosity,  but 
for  the  satisfaction  of  his  manhood  which  was  bound  up 
with  a  question. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  97 

When  he  arrived,  Joanna  was  still  in  church — on  Christ- 
mas Day  as  on  other  selected  festivals,  she  always  "stayed 
the  Sacrament,"  and  did  not  come  out  till  nearly  one.  He 
went  to  meet  her,  and  waited  for  her  some  ten  minutes  in  the 
little  churchyard  which  was  a  vivid  green  with  the  Christmas 
rains.  The  day  was  clear  and  curiously  soft  for  the  sea- 
son, even  on  the  Marsh  where  the  winters  are  usually  mild. 
The  sky  was  a  delicate  blue,  washed  with  queer,  flat  clouds 
— the  whole  country  of  the  Marsh  seemed  faintly  luminous, 
holding  the  sunshine  in  its  greens  and  browns.  Beside  the 
dyke  which  flows  by  Brodnyx  village  stood  a  big  thorn  tree, 
still  bright  with  haws.  It  made  a  vivid  red  patch  in  the 
foreground,  one  touch  of  Christmas  in  a  landscape  which 
otherwise  suggested  October — especially  in  the  sunshine, 
which  poured  in  a  warm  shower  on  to  the  altar  tomb  where 
Martin  sat. 

He  grew  dreamy  with  waiting — his  thoughts  seemed  to 
melt  into  the  softness  of  the  day,  to  be  part  of  the  still 
air  and  misty  sunshine,  just  as  the  triple-barned  church  with 
its  grotesque  tower  was  part.  .  .  .  He  could  feel  the  great 
marsh  stretching  around  him,  the  lonely  miles  of  Walland 
and  Dunge  and  Romncy,  once  the  sea's  bed,  now  lately  inned 
for  man  and  his  small  dwellings,  his  keepings  and  his  cares, 
perhaps  one  day  to  return  to  the  same  deep  from  which  it 
had  come.  People  said  that  the  bells  of  Broomhill  church — 
drowned  in  the  great  floods  which  had  changed  the  Rothcr's 
mouth  —  still  rang  under  the  sea.  If  the  sea  came  to 
Brodnyx,  would  Brodnyx  bells  ring  on? — And  Pedlingc? 
And  Brcnzett?  And  Fairfield?  y\nd  all  the  little  churches 
of  Thomas  a  Beckct  on  their  mounds? — What  a  ringing 
there  would  be. 

He  woke  out  of  his  day-dream  at  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps— the  people  were  coming  out,  and  glancing  up  he 
saw  Joanna  a  few  yards  off.  She  looked  surprised  to  see 
him,  but  also  she  made  no  attempt  to  hide  her  pleasure — 

"Mr.  Trevor  1    You  here?" 


98  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"I  came  over  to  Ansdore  to  wish  you  a  happy  Christmas, 
and  they  told  me  you  were  still  in  church." 

"Yes — I  stopped  for  Communion — "  her  mouth  fell  into 
a  serious,  reminiscent  line,  "you  didn't  come  to  the  first 
service,  neither?" 

"No,  my  brother's  at  home,  and  he  took  charge  of  my 
father's  spiritual  welfare — they  went  off  to  church  at 
Udimore,  and  I  was  too  lazy  to  follow  them." 

"I'm  sorry  you  didn't  come  here — they  used  my  harmo- 
nium for  the  first  time,  and  it  was  valiant." 

He  smiled  at  her  adjective. 

"I'll  come  another  day  and  hear  your  valiant  harmonium. 
I  suppose  you  think  everybody  should  go  to  church?" 

"My  father  went  and  I  reckon  I'll  keep  on  going." 

"You  always  do  as  your  father  did?" 

"In  most  ways." 

"But  not  in  all — I  hear  startling  tales  of  new-shaped 
waggons  and  other  adventures,  to  say  nothing  of  your 
breaking  up  grass  next  spring." 

"Well,  if  you  don't  see  any  diflference  between  breaking 
up  grass  and  giving  up  church  .  .  ." 

"They  are  both  a  revolt  from  habit." 

"Now,  don't  you  talk  like  that — it  ain't  seemly.  I  don't 
like  hearing  a  man  make  a  mock  of  good  things,  and  going 
to  church  is  a  good  thing,  as  I  should  ought  to  know, 
having  just  come  out  of  it." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Martin  humbly,  and  for  some  reason 
he  felt  ashamed.  They  were  walking  now  along  the 
Pedlinge  road,  and  the  whole  marsh,  so  broad  and  simple, 
seemed  to  join  in  her  rebuke  of  him. 

She  saw  his  contrite  look,  and  repented  of  her  sharpness. 

"Come  along  home  and  have  a  bit  of  our  Christmas 
dinner." 

Martin  stuttered — he  had  not  expected  such  an  invita- 
tion, and  it  alarmed  him. 

"W'e  all  have  dinner  together  on  Christmas  Day,"  con- 
tinued Joanna,  "men  and  gals,  old  Stuppeny,  Mrs.  Tolhurst, 


JOANNA    GODDEN  99 

everybody — we'd  take  it  kindly  if  you'd  join  us.  But — 
I'm  forgetting — you'll  be  having  your  own  dinner  at  home." 

"We  shan't  have  ours  till  the  evening." 

"Oh — late  dinner" — her  tone  became  faintly  reverential 
— "it  ud  never  do  if  we  had  that.  The  old  folk,  like  Stup- 
peny  and  such,  ud  find  their  stomachs  keep  them  awake. 
We've  got  two  turkeys  and  a  goose  and  plum  puddings 
and  mince  pies,  to  say  nothing  of  the  oranges  and  nuts — 
that  ain't  the  kind  of  food  to  go  to  bed  with." 

"I  agree,"  said  Martin,  smiling. 

"Then  you'll  come  and  have  dinner  at  Ansdore?" 

They  had  reached  the  first  crossing  of  the  railway  line, 
and  if  he  was  going  back  to  North  Farthing  he  should  turn 
here.  lie  could  easily  make  an  excuse — no  man  really 
wanted  to  eat  two  Christmas  dinners — but  his  flutter  was 
gone,  and  he  found  an  attraction  in  the  communal  meal  to 
which  she  was  inviting  him.  He  would  like  to  see  the  old 
folk  at  their  feast,  the  old  folk  who  had  been  born  on  the 
marsh,  who  had  grown  wrinkled  with  its  sun  and  reddened 
with  its  wind  and  bent  with  their  labours  in  its  damp  soil. 
There  would  be  Joanna  too — he  would  get  a  close  glimpse 
of  her.  It  was  true  that  he  would  be  j)ulling  the  cord 
between  them  a  little  tighter,  but  already  she  was  drawing 
him  and  he  was  coming  willingly.  Today  he  had  found 
in  her  an  unsuspected  streak  of  goodness,  a  sound,  sweet 
core  which  he  had  not  looked  for  under  his  paradox  of 
softness  and  brutality.  ...  It  would  be  worth  while  com- 
mitting himself  with  Joanna  Goddcn. 


§   11 

Dinner  on  Christmas  Day  was  always  in  the  kitchen  at 
Ansdore.  When  Joanna  reached  home  with  Martin,  the 
two  tables,  set  end  to  end,  were  laid — with  newly  ironed 
cloths  and  newly  polished  knives,  but  with  the  second-best 
china  only,  since  many  of  the  guests  were  clumsy.    Joanna 


100  JOANNA    GODDEN 

wished  there  had  been  time  to  get  out  the  best  china,  but 
there  was  not. 

Ellen  came  flying  to  meet  them,  in  a  white  serge  frock 
tied  with  a  red  sash. 

"Arthur  Alee  has  come,  Jo — we're  all  waiting.  Is  Mr. 
Trevor  coming  too?"  and  she  put  her  head  on  one  side, 
looking  up  at  him  through  her  long  fringe. 

"Yes,  duckie.  Mr.  Trevor's  dropped  in  to  taste  our  tur- 
key and  plum  pudding — to  see  if  they  ain't  better  than  his 
own  tonight." 

"Is  he  going  to  have  another  turkey  and  plum  pudding 
tonight?    How  greedy !" 

"Be  quiet,  you  sassy  little  cat — "  and  Joanna's  hand 
swooped,  missing  Ellen's  head  only  by  the  sudden  duck 
she  gave  it. 

"Leave  me  alone,  Joanna — you  might  keep  your  temper 
just  for  Christmas  Day." 

"I  won't  have  you  sass  strangers." 

"I  wasn't  sassing." 

"You  was." 

"I  wasn't." 

Martin  felt  scared. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mean  me  by  the  stranger,"  he  said, 
taking  up  lightness  as  a  weapon,  "I  think  I  know  you  well 
enough  to  be  sassed — not  that  I  call  that  sassing." 

"Well,  it's  good  of  you  not  to  mind,"  said  Joanna,  "per- 
sonally I've  great  ideas  of  manners,  and  Ellen's  brought 
back  some  queer  ones  from  her  school,  though  others  she's 
learned  are  beautiful.  Fancy,  she  never  sat  down  to  dinner 
without  a  serviette." 

"Never,"  said  Ellen  emphatically. 

Martin  appeared  suitably  impressed.  He  thought  Ellen 
a  pretty  little  thing,  strangely  exotic  beside  her  sister. 

Dinner  was  ready  in  the  kitchen,  and  they  all  went  in, 
Joanna  having  taken  off  her  coat  and  hat  and  smoothed 
her  hair.  Before  they  sat  down  there  were  introductions 
to  Arthur  Alee  and  to  Luck  and  Broadhurst  and  Stuppcny 


JOANNA    GODDEN  101 

and  the  other  farm  people.  The  relation  between  em- 
ployers and  employed  was  at  once  more  patriarchal  and  less 
sharply  defined  at  Ansdore  than  it  was  at  North  Farthing 
— Martin  tried  to  picture  his  father  sitting  down  to  dinner 
with  the  carter  and  the  looker  and  the  housemaid.  ...  It 
was  beyond  imagination,  yet  Joanna  did  it  quite  naturally. 
Of  course,  there  was  a  smaller  gulf  between  her  and  her 
people — the  social  grades  were  inclined  to  fuse  on  the 
marsh,  and  the  farmer  was  only  just  better  than  his  looker 
— ^but  on  the  other  hand,  she  seemed  to  have  far  more 
authority.  .  .  . 

"Now,  hold  your  tongues  while  I  say  grace,"  she  cried. 

Joanna  carved  the  turkeys,  refusing  to  deputise  either  to 
Martin  or  to  Alee.  At  the  same  time  she  led  a  general  kind 
of  conversation.  The  Christmas  feast  was  to  be  communal 
in  spirit  as  well  as  in  fact — ^there  were  to  be  no  formalities 
above  the  salt  or  mutterings  below  it.  The  new  harmonium 
provided  a  good  topic,  for  everyone  had  heard  it,  except 
Mrs.  Tolhurst  who  had  stayed  to  keep  watch  over  Ansdore, 
cheering  herself  with  the  prospect  of  carols  in  the  evening. 

"It  sounded  best  in  the  psalms,"  said  Wilson,  Joanna's 
looker  since  Socknersh's  day — "oh,  the  lovely  grunts  it 
made  when  it  said — 'Thou  art  my  Son,  this  day  have  I 
begotten  thee !'  " 

"So  it  did,"  said  Broadhurst,  "but  I  liked  it  best  in  the 
Herald  Angels." 

"I  liked  it  all  through,"  said  Milly  Pump,  the  chicken 
girl,  "and  thought  Mr.  Elphick  middling  clever  to  make 
it  sound  as  if  it  wur  playing  two  different  tunes  at  the  same 
time." 

"Was  that  how  it  sounded?"  asked  Mrs.  Tolhurst  wist- 
fully, "maybe  they'll  have  it  for  the  carols  tonight." 

"Surclye,"  said  old  Stuppony,  "you'd  never  have  carols 
wudout  a  harmonister.  I'd  lik  myself  to  go  and  hear  it, 
but  doubt  if  I  git  so  far  wud  so  much  good  victual  inside 
mc." 


102  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"No,  you  won't — not  half  so  far,"  said  Joanna  briskly, 
"you  stop  at  home  and  keep  quiet  after  this,  or  you'll  be 
having  bad  dreams  tonight." 

"I  never  do  but  have  one  kind  o'  dream,"  said  old  Stup- 
peny,  "I  dream  as  I'm  setting  by  the  fire  and  a  young  gal 
brings  me  a  cup  of  cocoa.  'Tis  but  an  old  dream,  but  reckon 
the  Lord  God  sends  the  old  dreams  to  the  old  folk — all  them 
new  dreams  that  are  about  on  the  marsh,  they  goes  to  the 
young  uns." 

"Well,  you've  no  call  to  complain  of  your  dreams,  Stup- 
peny,"  said  Wilson,  "  'tisn't  everyone  who  has  the  luck  to 
dream  regular  of  a  pretty  young  gal.  Leastways,  I  guess 
she's  pretty,  though  you  aun't  said  it." 

"I  doan't  take  much  count  on  her  looks — 'tis  the  cocoa 
I'm  after,  though  it  aun't  often  as  the  Lord  God  lets  the 
dream  stay  till  I've  drunk  my  cup.  Sometimes  'tis  my 
daughter  Nannie  wot  brings  it,  but  most  times  'tis  just 
some  unacquainted  female." 

"Oh,  you  sorry  old  dog,"  said  Wilson,  and  the  table 
laughed  deep-throatedly,  or  giggled,  according  to  sex.  Old 
Stuppeny  looked  pleased.  His  dream,  for  some  reason  un- 
known to  himself,  never  failed  to  raise  a  laugh,  and  gen- 
erally produced  a  cup  of  cocoa  sooner  or  later  from  one  of 
the  girls. 

Martin  did  not  join  in  the  discussion — ^he  felt  that  his 
presence  slightly  damped  the  company,  and  for  him  to  talk 
might  spoil  their  chances  of  forgetting  him.  He  watched 
Miss  Godden  as  she  ate  and  laughed  and  kept  the  conver- 
sation rolling — he  also  watched  Arthur  Alee,  trying  to  use 
this  man's  devotion  as  a  clue  to  what  was  left  of  Joanna's 
mystery.  Alee  struck  him  as  a  dull  fellow,  and  he  put 
down  his  faithfulness  to  the  fact  that  having  once  fallen 
into  love  as  into  a  rut  he  had  lain  there  like  a  sheep  on  its 
back  ever  since.  He  could  see  that  Alee  did  not  altogether 
approve  of  his  own  choice — her  vigour  and  flame,  her 
quick  temi>er,  her  free  airs — she  was  really  too  big  for  these 
people ;  and  yet  she  was  so  essentially  one  with  them  .  .  . 


JOANNA    GODDEN  103 

their  roots  mingled  in  the  same  soil,  the  rich,  damp,  hardy 
soil  of  the  marsh. 

His  attitude  towards  her  was  undergoing  its  second  and 
final  change.  Now  he  knew  that  he  would  never  want  to 
fllirt  with  her.  He  did  not  want  her  tentatively  or  tem- 
porarily. He  still  wanted  her  adventurously,  but  her 
adventure  was  not  the  adventure  of  siege  and  capture  but 
of  peaceful  holding.  Like  the  earth,  she  would  give  her 
best  not  to  the  man  w^ho  galloped  over  her,  but  to  the  man 
who  chose  her  for  his  home  and  settlement.  Thus  he  would 
hold  her,  or  not  at  all.  Very  likely  after  today  he  would 
renounce  her — he  had  not  yet  gone  too  far,  his  eyes  were 
still  undazzled,  and  he  could  see  the  difficulties  and  limita- 
tions in  which  he  was  involving  himself  by  such  a  choice. 
He  was  a  gentleman  and  a  townsman — he  trod  her  country 
only  as  a  stranger,  and  he  knew  that  in  spite  of  the  love 
which  the  marsh  had  made  him  give  it  in  the  few  months 
of  his  dwelling,  his  thoughts  still  worked  for  years  ahead, 
when  better  health  and  circumstances  would  allow  him  to 
go  back  to  the  town,  to  a  quick  and  crowded  life.  Could 
he  then  swear  himself  to  the  slow  blank  life  of  the  Three 
Marshes,  where  events  move  deliberately  as  a  plough  ?  To 
the  empty  landscape,  to  the  flat  miles?  He  would  have  to 
love  her  enough  to  endure  the  empty  flatness  thit  framed 
her.  He  could  never  take  her  away,  any  more  than  he 
could  take  away  Ansdore  or  North  Farthing.  He  must 
make  a  renunciation  for  her  sake — could  he  do  so?  And 
after  all,  she  was  common  stuff — a  farmer's  daughter,  bred 
at  the  National  School.  By  taking  her  he  would  be  making 
just  a  yokel  of  himself.  ,  .  .  Yet  was  it  worth  clinging  to 
his  simulacrum  of  gentility — boosted  up  by  his  father's 
title  and  a  few  dead  rites,  such  as  the  late  dinner  which 
had  impressed  her  so  much.  The  only  real  difference 
between  the  Goddcns  and  the  Trevors  was  that  the  former 
knew  their  job  and  the  latter  didn't. 

All  this  thinking  did  not  make  either  for  much  talk  or 
much  appetite,  and  Joanna  was  disappointed.     She  let  fall 


104  JOANNA    GODDEN 

one  or  two  remarks  on  farming  and  outside  matters,  think- 
ing that  perhaps  the  conversation  was  too  homely  and 
intimate  for  him,  but  he  responded  only  languidly. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Mr.  Trevor,"  said  Ellen 
pertly. 

"You  eat  your  pudding,"  said  Joanna. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  Martin  was  disgusted 
by  the  homeliness  of  the  meal — after  all,  he  was  gentry, 
and  it  was  unusual  for  gentry  to  sit  down  to  dinner  with 
a  crowd  of  farm-hands.  .  .  .  No  doubt  at  home  he  had 
wine-glasses  and  a  servant-girl  to  hand  the  dishes.  She 
made  a  resolution  to  ask  him  again  and  provide  both  these 
luxuries.  Today  she  would  take  him  into  the  parlour  and 
make  Ellen  show  off  her  accomplishments,  which  would 
help  put  a  varnish  of  gentility  on  the  general  coarseness 
of  the  entertainment.  She  wished  she  had  asked  Mr. 
Pratt — she  had  thought  of  doing  so,  but  finally  decided 
against  it. 

So  when  the  company  had  done  shovelling  the  stilton 
cheese  into  their  mouths  with  their  knives,  she  announced 
that  she  and  Mr.  Trevor  would  have  their  cups  of  tea  in 
the  parlour,  and  told  Milly  to  go  quick  and  light  the  fire. 

Ellen  was  most  satisfactorily  equal  to  this  part  of  the 
occasion.  She  recited  the  "Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  To- 
night," and  played  Haydn's  Gipsy  Rondo.  Joanna  began 
to  feel  complacent  once  more. 

"I  made  up  my  mind  she  should  go  to  a  good  school,"  she 
said  when  her  sister  had  run  back  to  what  festivities  lin- 
gered in  the  kitchen,  "and  really  it's  wonderful  what  they've 
taught  her.    She'll  grow  up  to  be  a  lady." 

It  seemed  to  Martin  that  she  stressed  the  last  word  rather 
wistfully,  and  the  next  moment  she  added — 

"There's  not  many  of  your  sort  on  the  marsh." 

"How  do  you  mean — my  sort?" 

"Gentlefolk." 

"Oh,  we  don't  trouble  to  call  ourselves  gentlefolk.  My 
father  and  I  are  just  plain  farmers  now." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  105 

"But  you  don't  really  belong  to  us — you're  the  like  of 
the  Savilles  at  Dungemarsh  Court,  and  the  clergy  families." 

"Is  that  where  you  put  us? — We'd  find  our  lives  jolly 
dull  if  we  shut  ourselves  up  in  that  set.  I  can  tell  you  that 
I've  enjoyed  myself  far  more  here  today  than  ever  at  the 
Court  or  the  Rectory.  Besides,  Miss  Godden,  your  position 
on  Walland  Marsh  is  very  much  better  than  ours.  You're 
a  great  personage,  you  know." 

"Reckon  folks  talk  about  me,"  said  Joanna  proudly. 
"Maybe  you've  heard  'em." 

He  nodded. 

"You've  heard  about  me  and  Arthur  Alee?" 

"I've  heard  some  gossip." 

"Don't  you  believe  it.  I'm  fond  of  Arthur,  but  he  ain't 
my  style — and  I  could  do  better  for  myself.  .  .  ." 

She  paused — her  words  seemed  to  hang  in  the  flickering 
warmth  of  the  room.  She  was  waiting  for  him  to  speak, 
and  he  felt  a  little  shocked  and  repelled.  She  was  angling 
for  him — he  had  never  suspected  that. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said,  standing  up. 

"So  soon?" 

"Yes — tradition  sends  one  home  on  Christmas  Day." 

He  moved  towards  the  door,  and  she  followed  him, 
glowing  and  majestic  in  the  shadows  of  the  firclit  room. 
Outside,  the  sky  was  washed  with  a  strange,  fiery  green, 
in  which  the  new-kindled  stars  hung  like  lamps. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  the  warm, 
red  house  behind  them,  before  them  the  star-hung  width 
anrl  emptiness  of  the  Marsh.  Martin  blocked  the  sky  for 
Joanna,  as  he  turned  and  held  out  his  hand.  Then,  on  the 
brink  of  love,  she  hesitated.  A  memory  smote  her — of 
herself  standing  before  another  mrm  who  blocked  the  sky, 
and  in  whose  eyes  sat  the  small,  enslaved  image  of  herself. 
Was  she  just  being  a  fool  again  ? — Ought  she  to  draw  back 
while  she  harl  still  the  power,  before  she  became  his  slave, 
Mr.  little  thing,  and  all  her  bigness  was  drowned  in  his  eyes. 
She  knew  that  whatever  she  gave  him  now  could  never  be 


106  JOANNA    GODDEN 

taken  back.  Here  stood  the  master  of  the  mistress  of 
Ansdore. 

As  for  Martin,  his  thoughts  were  of  another  kind. 

"Goodbye,"  he  said,  renouncing  her — for  her  boldness 
and  her  commonness  and  all  that  she  would  mean  of  change 
and  of   foregoing — "Goodbye,  Joanna." 

He  had  not  meant  to  say  her  name,  but  it  had  come,  and 
with  it  all  the  departing  adventure  of  love.  She  seemed 
to  fall  towards  him,  to  lean  suddenly  like  a  tree  in  a  gale — 
he  smelt  a  fresh,  sweet  smell  of  clean  cotton  underclothing, 
of  a  plain  soap,  of  free  unperfumed  hair  .  .  .  then  she  was 
in  his  arms,  and  he  was  kissing  her  warm,  shy  mouth,  feel- 
ing that  for  this  moment  he  had  been  born. 

§  12 

"Well,  where  have  you  been?"  asked  Sir  Harry,  as  his 
son  walked  in  at  the  hall  door  soon  after  six. 

"I've  been  having  dinner  with  Joanna  Godden." 

"The  deuce  you  have." 

"I  looked  in  to  see  her  this  morning  and  she  asked  me 
to  stay." 

"You've  stayed  long  enough — your  saintly  brother's  had 
to  do  the  milking." 

"Where's  Dennett  ?" 

"Gone  to  the  carols  with  the  rest.  Confounded  nuisance, 
these  primitive  religious  impulses  of  an  elemental  people — 
always  seem  to  require  an  outlet  at  an  hour  when  other 
people  want  their  meals." 

"They'll  be  back  in  time  for  dinner." 

"I  d'  -"bt  it,  and  cook's  gone  too — and  Tom  Saville's 
cominc^.     'ai  know." 

"We'i    I'd  better  go  and  see  after  the  milking." 

"Don't  worry.  I've  finished,"  and  a  dark  round  head 
came  r'^und  the  door,  followed  by  a  hunched  figure  in  a 
cloak,  from  the  folds  of  which  it  deprecatingly  held  out  a 
pint  ju"^. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  107 

"V/hat'sthat?" 

"The  results  of  half  an  hour's  milking.  I  know  I  should 
have  got  more,  but  I  think  the  cows  found  me  unsympa- 
thetic." 

Martin  burst  out  laughing.  Ordinarily  he  would  have 
felt  annoyed  at  the  prospect  of  having  to  go  milking  at  this 
hour,  but  tonight  he  was  expansive  and  good-humoured 
towards  all  beasts  and  men. 

He  laughed  again — 

"I  don't  know  that  the  cows  have  any  particular  fancy 
for  me,  but  I'll  go  and  see  what  I  can  do." 

"I'm  sorry  not  to  have  succeeded  better,"  said  his  brother. 

The  elder  Trevor  was  only  two  years  older  than  Martin, 
but  his  looks  gave  him  more.  His  features  were  blunter, 
more  humorous,  and  his  face  was  already  lined,  while 
his  hands  looked  work-worn.  He  wore  a  rough  grey  cas- 
sock buttoned  up  to  his  chin. 

"You  should  have  preached  to  them,"  said  Sir  Harry, 
"like  St.  Francis  of  something  or  other.  You  should  have 
called  them  your  sisters  and  they'd  have  showered  down 
their  milk  in  gallons.  What's  the  good  of  being  a  monk 
if  you  can't  work  miracles?" 

"I  leave  that  to  St.  Francis  Dennett — I'm  (juilc  convinced 
that  cows  are  milked  only  supernaturally,  and  I  find  it  very 
difficult  even  to  be  natural  with  them.  Perhaps  Martin 
will  take  me  in  hand  and  show  me  that  much." 

"I  don't  think  I  need.     I  hear  the  servants  coming  in." 

"Thank  God,"  exclaimed  Sir  Harry,  "now  ju-rhaps  we 
shall  get  our  food  cooked.  Martin's  already  hari  dinner, 
Lawrence — he  had  it  with  Joanna  Godden.  Martin,  1  don't 
know  that  I  like  you  having  dinner  with  Joanna  (if)ddcn. 
It  marks  you — they'll  talk  about  it  at  the  Wooli)ack  for 
weeks,  and  it'll  probably  end  in  your  having  to  marry  her 
to  make  her  an  hr)nest  woman." 

"That's  what  I  mean  to  do — to  marry  her." 

The  words  broke  out  of  him.  He  had  certainly  not 
meant  to  tell  his  father  anything  just  yet.     Apart  from  his 


108  JOANNA   GODDEN 

natural  reserve,  Sir  Harry  was  not  the  man  he  would  have 
chosen  for  such  confidences  till  they  became  inevitable. 
The  fact  that  his  father  was  still  emotionally  young  and 
had  love  affairs  of  his  own  gave  him  feelings  of  repugnance 
and  irritation — he  could  have  endured  the  conventionally 
paternal  praise  or  blame,  but  he  was  vaguely  outraged  by 
the  queer  basis  of  equality  from  which  Sir  Harry  dealt  with 
his  experiences.  But  now  the  truth  was  out.  What  would 
they  say,  these  two? — The  old  rake  who  refused  to  turn 
his  back  on  youth  and  love  and  the  triple-vowed  religious 
who  had  renounced  both  before  he  had  enjoyed  either. 

Sir  Harry  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Martin,  I  am  an  old  man,  who  will  soon  be  forced  to 
dye  his  hair,  and  really  my  constitution  is  not  equal  to  these 
shocks.  What  on  earth  makes  you  think  you  want  to 
marry  Joanna  Godden?'* 

"I  love  her." 

"A  most  desperate  situation.  But  surely  marriage  is 
rather  a  drastic  remedy." 

"Well,  don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  longer.  I'm  going 
to  dress — Saville  will  be  here  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"But  I  must  talk  about  it.  Hang  it  all,  I'm  your  father 
— I'm  the  father  of  both  of  you,  though  you  don't  like  it 
a  bit  and  would  rather  forget  it.  Martin,  you  mustn't  marry 
Joanna  Godden  however  much  you  love  her.  It  would  be 
a  silly  mistake — ^she's  not  your  equal,  and  she's  not  your 
type.     Have  you  asked  her?" 

"Practically." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  then.  It  doesn't  matter  asking  a 
woman  practically  as  long  as  you  don't  ask  her  literally." 

"Father,  please  don't  talk  about  it." 

"I  will  talk  about  it.  Lawrence,  do  you  know  what  this 
idiot's  letting  himself  in  for.  Have  you  seen  Joanna  God- 
den ?  Why,  she'd  never  do  for  him.  She's  a  big,  bouncing 
female,  and  her  stays  creak." 

"Be  quiet,  Father.    You  make  me  furious." 

"Yes,  you'll  be  disrespectful  to  me  in  a  minute.     That 


JOANNA    GODDEN  109 

would  be  very  sad,  and  the  breaking  of  a  noble  record.  Of 
course  it's  presumptuous  of  me  to  want  a  lady  for  my 
daughter-in-law,  and  perhaps  you're  right  to  chuck  away 
the  poor  remains  of  our  dignity — they  were  hardly  worth 
keeping." 

"I've  thought  over  that,"  said  Martin.  He  saw  now 
that  having  recklessly  started  the  subject  he  could  not  put 
it  aside  till  it  had  been  fought  out.  "I've  thought  over 
that,  and  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Joanna's  worth 
any  sacrifice  I  can  make  for  her." 

"But  not  marriage — why  must  you  ask  her  to  marry 
you?     You  don't  really  know  her.     You'll  cool  off." 

"I  shan't." 

"What  about  your  health,  Martin?"  asked  Lawrence, 
"are  you  fit  and  able  to  marry  ?  You  know  what  the  doctor 
said." 

"He  said  I  might  go  off  into  consumption  if  I  hung  on 
in  town — that  beastly  atmosphere  at  Wright's,  and  all  the 
racket.  .  .  .  But  there's  nothing  actually  wrong  with  me, 
I'm  perfectly  fit  down  here.  I'll  last  for  ever  in  this  place, 
and  I  tell  you  it's  been  a  ghastly  thought  till  now — knowing 
that  I  must  either  stop  here,  away  from  all  my  friends 
and  interests,  or  else  shorten  my  life.  But  now,  I  don't 
care — when  I  marry  Joanna  Godden,  I'll  take  root,  I'll 
belong  to  the  marsh,  I'll  be  at  home.  You  don't  know 
Joanna  Godden,  Lawrence — if  you  did  I  believe  you'd  like 
her.  She's  so  sane  and  simple — she's  so  warm  and  alive ; 
and  she's  good,  too — when  I  met  her  today,  she  had  just 
been  to  Communion.  She'll  help  me  to  live — at  last  I'll 
be  able  to  live  the  best  life  for  me,  body  and  soul,  down 
here  in  the  sea  air,  with  no  town  rubbish.  .  .  ." 

"It  sounds  a  good  thing,"  said  Lawrence.  "After  all, 
Father,  there  really  isn't  much  use  trying  to  keep  up  the 
state  of  the  Trevors  and  all  that  now.  .  .  ." 

"No,  there  isn't — especially  when  this  evening's  guest  will 
arrive  in  two  minutes  to  find  us  sitting  round  in  din  and 
darkness  and  dissension,  all   because  we've  been  too  Inisy 


no  JOANNA    GODDEN 

discussing  our  heir's  betrothal  to  a  neighbouring  goose-girl 
to  trouble  about  such  fripperies  as  dressing  for  dinner.  Of 
course,  now  Lawrence  elects  to  take  Martin's  part,  there's 
no  good  my  trying  to  stand  against  the  two  of  you.  I've 
always  been  under  your  heels,  ever  since  you  were  old 
enough  to  boss  me.  Let  the  state  of  the  Trevors  go — Mar- 
tin, marry  Joanna  Godden  and  we  will  come  to  you  for  our 
mangolds — Lawrence,  if  you  were  not  hindered  by  your 
vows,  I  should  suggest  your  marrying  one  of  the  Miss 
Southlands  or  the  Miss  Vines,  and  then  we  could  have  a 
picturesque  double  wedding.  As  for  me,  I  will  build  on 
more  solid  foundations  than  either  of  you,  and  marry  my 
cook." 

With  which  threat  he  departed  to  groom  himself. 

"He'll  be  all  right,"  said  Martin,  "he  likes  Joanna  Godden 
really." 

"So  do  L  She  sounds  a  good  sort.  Will  you  take  me 
to  see  her  before  I  go?" 

"Certainly.  I  want  you  to  meet  her.  When  you  do, 
you'll  see  that  I'm  not  doing  anything  rash,  even  from  the 
worldly  point  of  view.  She  comes  of  a  fine  old  yeoman 
stock,  and  she's  of  far  more  consequence  on  the  marsh  than 
any  of  us." 

"I  can't  see  that  the  social  question  is  of  much  impor- 
tance. As  long  as  your  tastes  and  your  ideas  aren't  too 
different.  ..." 

"I'm  afraid  they  are,  rather.  But  somehow  we  seem  to 
complement  each  other.  She's  so  solid  and  so  sane — 
there's  something  barbaric  about  her  too  .  .  .  it's  queer." 

"I've  seen  her.  She's  a  fine-looking  girl — a  bit  older 
than  you,  isn't  she?" 

"Five  years.  Against  it,  of  course — but  then  I'm  so 
much  older  than  she  is  in  most  ways.  She's  a  practical 
woman  of  business — knows  more  about  farming  than  I 
shall  ever  know  in  my  life — but  in  matters  of  life  and  love, 
she's  a  child.  .  .  ." 

"I  should  almost  have  thought  it  better  the  other  way 


JOANNA    GODDEN  111 

round — that  you  should  know  about  the  business  and  she 
about  the  love.  But  then  in  such  matters  I  too  am  a  child." 
lie  smiled  disarmingly,  but  Martin  felt  ruffled — partly 
because  his  brother's  voluntary  abstention  from  experience 
always  annoyed  him,  and  partly  because  he  knew  that  in 
this  case  the  child  was  right  and  the  man  wrong. 

§  13 

In  the  engagement  of  Joanna  Godden  to  Martin  Trevor, 
Walland  Marsh  had  its  biggest  sensation  for  years.  Indeed 
it  could  be  said  that  nothing  so  startling  had  happened 
since  the  Rother  changed  its  mouth.  The  feelings  of  those 
far-back  marsh-dwellers  who  had  awakened  one  morning 
to  find  the  Kentish  river  swirling  past  their  doors  at  Broom- 
hill  might  aptly  be  compared  with  those  of  the  farms  round 
the  Wool  pack,  who  woke  to  find  that  Joanna  Godden  was 
not  going  just  to  jog  on  her  final  choice  between  Arthur 
Alee  and  old  maidenhood,  but  had  swept  aside  to  make 
an  excellent,  fine  marriage. 

"She's  been  working  for  this  all  along,"  said  Prickett 
disdainfully. 

"I  don't  see  that  she's  had  the  chance  to  work  much," 
said  Vine,  "she  hasn't  seen  the  young  chap  more  than  three 
or  four  times." 

"Bates'  looker  saw  them  at  Romney  once,"  said  South- 
land, "having  their  dinner  together;  but  that  time  at  the 
Farmers'  Club  he'd  barely  speak  to  her." 

"Well,  she's  got  herself  talked  about  over  two  men  that 
she  hasn't  took,  and  now  she's  took  a  man  that  she  hasn't 
got  herself  talked  about  over." 

"Anyways,  I'm  glad  of  it."  said  Furnese,  "she's  a  mare 
that's  never  been  praaperly  broken  in,  and  now  at  last  she's 
got  a  man  to  do  it." 

"Poor  feller,  Alee.     I  wonder  how  he'll  take  it." 

Alee  took  it  very  well.  For  a  week  he  did  not  come  to 
Ansdore,   then   he   appeared   with   Joanna's    first   wedding- 


112  JOANNA    GODDEN 

present  in  the  shape  of  a  silver  tea-service  which  had  be- 
longed to  his  mother. 

"Maybe  it's  a  bit  early  yet  for  wedding-presents.  They 
say  you  won't  be  married  till  next  fall.  But  I've  always 
wanted  you  to  have  this  tea-set  of  Mother's — it's  real 
silver,  as  you  can  see  by  the  lion  on  it — a  teapot  and  milk 
jug  and  sugar  bowl ;  many's  the  time  I've  seen  you  in  my 
mind's  eye,  setting  like  a  queen  and  pouring  my  tea  out  of 
it.     Since  it  can't  be  my  tea,  it  may  as  well  be  another's." 

"There'll  always  be  a  cup  for  you,  Arthur,"  said  Joanna 
graciously. 

"Thanks,"  said  Arthur  in  a  stricken  voice. 

Joanna  could  not  feel  as  sorry  for  Alee  as  she  ought  and 
w'ould  have  liked.  All  her  emotions,  whether  of  joy  or 
sorrow,  seemed  to  be  poured  into  the  wonderful  new  life 
that  Martin  had  given  her.  A  new  life  had  begun  for  her 
on  Christmas  Day — in  fact,  it  would  be  true  to  say  that  a 
new  Joanna  had  begun.  Something  in  her  was  broken, 
melted,  changed  out  of  all  recognition — she  was  softer, 
weaker,  more  excited,  more  tender.  She  had  lost  much 
of  her  old  swagger,  her  old  cocksureness,  for  Martin  had 
utterly  surprised  and  tamed  her.  She  had  come  to  him  in 
a  scheming  spirit  of  politics  and  he  had  kept  her  in  a  spirit 
of  devotion.  She  had  come  to  him  as  Ansdore  to  North 
Farthing — ^but  he  had  stripped  her  of  Ansdore,  and  she 
was  just  Joanna  Godden  who  had  waited  twenty-eight 
years  for  love. 

Yet,  perhaps  because  she  had  waited  so  long,  she  was 
now  a  little  afraid.  She  had  hitherto  met  love  only  in  the 
dim  forms  of  Arthur  Alee  and  Dick  Socknersh,  with  still 
more  hazy  images  in  the  courtships  of  Abbot  and  Cobb. 
Now  Martin  was  showing  her  love  as  no  dim  flicker  of 
candlelight  or  domestic  lamplight,  but  as  a  bright,  eager 
fire.  She  loved  his  kisses,  the  clasp  of  his  strong  arms, 
the  stability  of  his  chest  and  shoulders — but  sometimes 
his  passion  startled  her,  and  she  had  queer,  shy  withdrawals. 
Yet  these  were  never  more  than  temporary  and  superficial ; 


JOANNA    GODDEN  113 

her  own  passions  were  slowly  awaking,  and  moreover  had 
their  roots  in  a  sweet,  sane  instinct  of  vocation  and  com- 
mon sense. 

On  the  whole,  though,  she  was  happiest  in  the  quieter 
ways  of  love — the  meals  together,  the  fireside  talks,  the 
meetings  in  lonely  places,  the  queer,  half-laughing  secrets, 
the  stolen  glances  in  company.  She  made  a  great  fuss  of 
his  bodily  needs — she  was  convinced  that  he  did  not  get 
properly  fed  or  looked  after  at  home,  and  was  always  pre- 
paring him  little  snacks  and  surprises.  For  her  sake, 
Martin  swallowed  innumerable  cups  of  milk  and  wrapped 
his  chin  in  chokey  mufflers. 

She  had  her  prouder  moments  too.  On  her  finger  glit- 
tered a  gorgeous  band  of  brilliants  and  sapphires  which 
she  had  chosen  for  her  engagement  ring,  and  it  was  noticed 
that  Joanna  Godden  now  always  drove  with  her  gloves  off. 
She  had  insisted  on  driving  Martin  round  the  marsh  to 
call  on  her  friends — to  show  him  to  Mrs.  Southland,  Mrs. 
Vine,  and  Mrs.  Prickett,  to  say  nothing  of  their  husbands 
who  had  always  said  no  man  in  his  senses  would  marry 
Joanna  Godden.  Well,  not  merely  a  man  but  a  gentleman 
was  going  to  do  it — a  gentleman  who  had  his  clothes  made 
for  him  at  a  London  tailor's  instead  of  buying  them  ready- 
made  at  Lydd  or  Romney  or  Rye,  who  had — he  confessed 
it,  though  he  never  wore  it — a  top  hat  in  his  possession, 
who  ate  late  dinner  and  always  smelt  of  good  tobacco  and 
shaving  soap  .  .  .  such  thoughts  would  bring  the  old  Jo- 
anna back,  for  one  fierce  moment  of  gloating. 

Ilcr  reception  by  North  Farthing  House  had  done  nothing 
to  spoil  her  triumph.  Martin's  father  and  brother  had  both 
accepted  her — the  latter  willingly,  since  he  believed  that 
she  would  be  a  sane  and  stabilising  influence  in  Martin's 
life,  hitherto  over-restless  and  mood-ridden.  lie  looked 
upon  his  brother  as  a  thwarted  romantic,  whose  sophisti- 
cation had  debarred  him  from  finding  a  natural  outlet  in 
religion.  He  saw  in  his  love  for  Joanna  the  chance  of  a 
return  to  nature  and  romance,  since  he  loved  a  thing  at 


114  JOANNA    GODDEN 

once  simple  and  adventurous,  homely  and  splendid — which 
was  how  religion  appeared  to  Father  Lawrence.  He  had 
liked  Joanna  very  much  on  their  meeting,  and  she  liked 
him  too,  though  as  she  told  him  frankly  she  "didn't  hold 
with  Jesoots." 

As  for  Sir  Harry,  he  too  liked  Joanna,  and  was  too  well- 
bred  and  fond  of  women  to  show  himself  ungracious  about 
that  which  he  could  not  prevent. 

"I've  surrendered,  Martin.  I  can't  help  myself.  You'll 
bring  down  my  grey  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  dyer's,  but  I 
am  all  beautiful  resignation.  Indeed  I  think  I  shall  offer 
myself  as  best  man,  and  flirt  dutifully  with  Ellen  Godden, 
who  I  suppose  will  be  chief  bridesmaid.  Your  brother  shall 
himself  perform  the  ceremony.  What  could  your  family 
do  more?" 

"What  indeed?"  laughed  Martin.  He  felt  warm-hearted 
towards  all  men  now — he  could  forgive  both  his  father  for 
having  had  too  much  experience  and  his  brother  for  having 
had  too  little. 

§  14 

The  actual  date  of  the  wedding  was  not  fixed  till  two 
months  had  run.  Though  essentially  adult  and  practical 
in  all  matters  of  business  and  daily  life,  Joanna  was  still 
emotionally  adolescent,  and  her  betrothed  state  satisfied 
her  as  it  would  never  have  done  if  her  feelings  had  been 
as  old  as  her  years.  Also  this  deferring  of  love  had  helped 
other  things  to  get  a  hold  on  her — Martin  was  astonished 
to  find  her  swayed  by  such  considerations  as  sowing  and 
shearing  and  marketing — "I  can't  fix  up  anything  till  I've 
got  my  spring  sowings  done" — "that  ud  be  in  the  middle 
of  the  shearing" — "I'd  sooner  wait  till  I'm  through  the 
Autumn  markets." 

He  discovered  that  she  thought  "next  fall"  the  best  time 
for  the  wedding — "I'll  have  got  everything  clear  by  then, 
and  I'll  know  how  the  new  ploughs  have  borne."  He  fought 
her  and  beat  her  back  into  June — "after  the  hay."    He  was 


JOANNA    GODDEN  115 

rather  angry  with  her  for  thinking  about  these  things,  they 
expressed  a  side  of  her  which  he  would  have  Hked  to  ignore. 
He  did  not  care  for  a  "managing"  woman,  and  he  could 
still  see,  in  spite  of  her  new  moments  of  surrender,  that 
Joanna  eternally  would  "manage."  But  in  spite  of  this, 
his  love  for  her  grew  daily,  as  he  discovered  daily  her 
warmth  and  breadth  and  tenderness,  her  growing  capacity 
for  passion.  Once  or  twice  he  told  her  to  let  the  sowings 
and  the  shearings  be  damned,  and  come  and  get  married 
to  him  quietly  without  any  fuss  at  the  registrar's.  But 
Joanna  was  shocked  at  the  idea  of  getting  married  any- 
where but  in  church — she  could  not  believe  a  marriage  legal 
which  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  had  not  blessed.  Also  he 
discovered  that  she  rejoiced  in  fuss,  and  thought  June 
almost  too  early  for  the  preparations  she  wanted  to  make. 

"I'm  going  to  show  'em  what  a  wedding's  like,"  she  re- 
marked ominously — "I'm  going  to  do  everything  in  the 
real,  proper,  slap-up  style.  I'm  going  to  have  a  white  dress 
and  a  veil  and  carriages  and  bridesmaids  and  favours — " 
this  was  the  old  Joanna — "you  don't  mind,  do  you,  Mar- 
tin ?"  this  was  the  new. 

Of  course  he  could  not  say  he  minded.  She  was  like  an 
eager  child,  anxious  for  notice  and  display.  He  would 
endure  the  wedding  for  her  sake.  He  also  would  endure 
for  her  sake  to  live  at  Ansdore ;  after  a  few  weeks  he  saw 
that  nothing  else  could  happen.  It  would  be  ridiculous 
for  Joanna  to  uproot  herself  from  her  prosperous  establish- 
ment and  settle  in  some  new  place  just  because  in  spirit  he 
shrank  from  becoming  "Mr.  Joanna  Goddcn."  She  had 
said  that  "Martin  and  Joanna  Trevor"  should  be  painted 
on  the  scrolled  name-boards  of  her  waggons,  but  he  knew 
thnt  on  the  farm  and  in  the  markct-j^lace  they  would  not 
be  on  an  equal  footing,  whatever  they  were  in  the  home. 
As  farmer  and  manager  she  would  outshine  him,  whose 
tastes  and  interests  and  experiences  were  so  difFercnt. 
Never  mind — he  would  have  more  time  to  give  to  the  be- 
loved pursuit  of  exploring  the  secret,  shy,  marsh  country — 


116  JOANNA    GODDEN 

he  would  do  all  Joanna's  business  afield,  in  the  far  market 
towns  of  New  Romney  and  Dymchurch,  and  the  farms 
away  in  Kent  or  under  the  Coast  at  Ruckinge  and  Ware- 
home. 

Meanwhile,  he  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time  at  Ansdore. 
He  liked  the  life  of  the  place  with  its  mixture  of  extrava- 
gance and  simplicity,  democracy  and  tyranny.  Fortunately, 
he  was  approved  of  Ellen — indeed  he  sometimes  found 
her  patronage  excessive.  He  thought  her  spoilt  and  afifected, 
and  might  almost  have  come  to  dislike  her  if  she  had  not 
been  such  a  pretty,  subtle  little  thing,  and  if  she  had  not 
interested  and  amused  him  by  her  sharp  contrasts  with  her 
sister.  He  was  now  also  amused  by  the  conflicts  between 
the  two,  which  at  first  had  shocked  him.  He  liked  to  see 
Joanna's  skin  go  pink  as  she  faced  Ellen  in  a  torment  of 
loving  anger  and  rattled  the  fierce  words  of?  her  tongue, 
while  Ellen  tripped  and  skipped  and  evaded  and  generally 
triumphed  by  virtue  of  a  certain  fundamental  coolness. 
"It  will  be  interesting  to  watch  that  girl  growing  up,"  he 
thought. 

§  15 

As  the  year  slid  through  the  fogs  into  the  Spring,  he 
persuaded  Joanna  to  come  with  him  on  his  rambles  on  the 
marsh.  He  was  astonished  to  find  how  little  she  knew  of 
her  own  country,  of  that  dim  flat  land  which  was  once 
under  the  sea.  She  knew  it  only  as  the  hunting  ground 
of  her  importance.  It  was  at  Yokes  Court  that  she  bought 
her  roots,  and  from  Becket's  House  her  looker  had  come; 
Lydd  and  Rye  and  Romney  were  only  market-towns — you 
did  best  in  cattle  at  Rye,  but  the  other  two  were  proper 
for  sheep;  Old  Honeychild  was  just  a  farm  where  she  had 
bought  some  good  spades  and  dibbles  at  an  auction ;  at 
Misleham  they  had  once  had  foot-and-mouth  disease — she 
had  gone  to  Picknye  Bush  for  the  character  of  Milly  Pump, 
her  chicken  girl.  .  .  . 


JOANNA    GODDEN  117 

He  told  her  of  the  smugglers  and  owlers  who  had  used 
the  Woolpack  as  their  headquarters  long  ago,  riding  by 
moonlight  to  the  cross-roads,  with  their  mouths  full  of 
slang — cant  talk  of  "mackerel"  and  "fencing"  and  "hornies" 
and  "Oliver's  glim" — 

"Well,  if  they  talked  worse  there  then  than  they  talk 
now,  they  must  have  talked  very  bad  indeed,"  was  all 
Joanna  found  to  say. 

He  told  her  of  the  old  monks  of  Canterbury  who  had 
covered  the  marsh  with  the  altars  of  Thomas  a  Becket — 

"We  got  shut  of  'em  all  on  the  fifth  of  November,"  said 
Joanna,  "as  we  sing  around  here  on  bonfire  nights — and  'A 
halfpenny  loaf  to  feed  the  Pope,  a  pennorth  of  cheese  to 
choke  him,'  as  we  say." 

All  the  same  he  enjoyed  the  expeditions  that  they  had 
together  in  her  trap,  driving  out  on  some  windy-skied 
March  day,  to  fill  the  hours  snatched  from  her  activities 
at  Ansdore  and  his  muddlings  at  North  Farthing  with  all 
the  sea-green  sunny  breadth  of  Walland,  and  still  more 
divinely  with  Walland's  secret  places — the  shelter  of  tall 
reeds  by  the  Yokes  Sewer,  or  of  a  thorn  thicket  making  a 
tent  of  white  blossom  and  spindled  shadows  in  the  midst 
of  the  open  land. 

Sometimes,'  they  crossed  the  Rhee  Wall  on  to  Romney 
Marsh,  and  he  showed  her  the  great  church  at  Ivychurch, 
which  could  have  swallowed  up  in  \t^  nave  llu^  two  small 
farms  that  make  the  village.  He  took  her  into  the  church 
at  New  Romney  and  showed  her  the  marks  of  the  Oreat 
Flood,  discolouring  the  i)illars  for  four  feet  from  the  ground. 

"Doesn't  it  thrill  you? — Doesn't  it  excite  you?"  he  teased 
her,  as  they  stood  together  in  the  nave,  the  church  smelling 
faintly  of  hearthstones. 

"Mow  long  ago  did  it  hap])cn  ?" 

"In  the  year  of  our  Lord  twelve  hundred  and  eighty- 
seven  the  Kentish  river  changed  his  mouth,  and  after  swill- 
ing out  Romney  Sands  and  drowning  all  the  marsh  from 
Honeychild  to  the  Wricks,  did  make  himself  a  new  mouth 


118  JOANNA    GODDEN 

ill  Rye  Bay,  with  which  mouth  he  swallowed  the  fifty 
taverns  and  twelve  churches  of  Broomhill,  and — " 

"Oh,  have  done  talking  that  silly  way — it's  like  the  Bihle, 
only  there's  no  good  in  it." 

Her  red  mouth  was  close  to  his  in  the  shadows  of  the 
church — he  kissed  it.  .  .  . 

"Child!" 

"Oh,  Martin—" 

She  was  faintly  shocked  because  he  had  kissed  her  in 
church,  so  he  drew  her  to  him,  tilting  back  her  chin. 

"You  mustn't"  .  .  .  but  she  had  lost  the  power  of  gain- 
saying him  now,  and  made  no  effort  to  release  herself.  He 
held  her  up  against  the  pillar  and  gave  her  mouth  another 
idolatrous  kiss  before  he  let  her  go. 

"If  it  happened  all  that  w^hile  back,  they  might  at  least 
have  got  the  marks  off  by  this  time,"  she  said,  tucking  away 
her  loosened  hair. 

Martin  laughed  aloud — her  little  reactions  of  common- 
sense  after  their  passionate  moments  never  failed  to  amuse 
and  delight  him. 

"You'd  have  had  it  off  with  your  broom,  and  that's  all  you 
think  about  it.  But  look  here,  child — what  if  it  happened 
again  ?" 

"It  can't." 

"How  do  you  know  ?" 

"It  can't— I  know  it." 

"But  if  it  happened  then  it  could  happen  again." 

"There  ain't  been  a  flood  on  the  Marsh  in  my  day,  nor 
in  my  poor  father's  day,  neither.  Sometimes  in  February 
the  White  Kemp  brims  a  bit,  but  I've  never  known  the 
roads  covered.  You're  full  of  old  tales.  And  now  let's 
go  out,  for  laughing  and  love-making  ain't  the  way  to  be- 
have in  church." 

"The  best  way  to  behave  in  church  is  to  get  married." 

She  blushed  faintly  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

They  went  out,  and  had  dinner  at  the  New  Inn,  which 
held  the  memory  of  their  first  meal  together,  in  that  huge, 


JOANNA   GODDEN  119 

sag-roofed  dining-room,  then  so  crowded,  now  empty  except 
for  themselves.  Joanna  was  still  given  to  holding  forth 
on  such  subjects  as  harness  and  spades,  and  today  she  gave 
Martin  nearly  as  much  practical  advice  as  on  that  first  occa- 
sion. 

"Now,  don't  you  waste  your  money  on  a  driller — we  don't 
give  our  sheep  turnips  on  the  marsh.  It's  an  inland  notion. 
The  grass  here  is  worth  a  field  of  roots.  You  stick  to  graz- 
ing and  you'll  keep  your  money  in  your  pocket  and  never 
send  coarse  mutton  to  the  butcher." 

He  did  not  resent  her  advice,  for  he  was  learning  humility. 
Her  superior  knowledge  and  experience  of  all  practical 
matters  was  beginning  to  lose  its  sting.  She  was  in  his 
eyes  so  adorable  a  creature  that  he  could  forgive  her  for 
being  dominant.  The  diiTerences  in  their  natures  were  no 
longer  incompatibilities,  but  gifts  which  they  brought  each 
other — he  brought  her  gifts  of  knowledge  and  imagination 
and  emotion,  and  she  brought  him  gifts  of  stability  and 
simplicity  and  a  certain  saving  commonness.  And  all  these 
gifts  were  fused  in  the  glow  of  personality,  in  a  kind  bodily 
warmth,  in  a  romantic  familiarity  which  sometimes  found 
its  expression  in  shyness  and  teasing. 

They  loved  each  other. 

§  16 

Martin  had  always  wanted  to  go  out  on  the  cape  at  Dunge 
Ness,  that  tongue  of  desolate  land  which  rakes  out  from 
Dunge  Marsh  into  the  sea,  slowly  moving  every  year  twenty 
feet  towards  France.  Joanna  had  a  profoimd  contempt 
of  Dunge  Ness — "not  enough  grazing  on  it  for  one  sheep" 
— but  Martin's  curiosity  mastered  her  indifference  and  she 
promised  to  drive  him  out  there  some  day.  She  had  been 
once  before  with  her  father,  on  some  forgotten  errand  to 
the  Hope  and  Anchor  Inn. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  May  when  they  set  out,  bowling 
through  Pedlinge  in  the  dog  cart  behind  Smiler's  jogging 


120  JOx^NNA    GODDEN 

heels.  Joanna  wore  her  bottle-green  driving  ccat,  with  a 
small,  close-fitting  hat,  since  Martin,  to  her  surprise  and 
disappointment,  disliked  her  best  hat  with  the  feathers.  He 
sat  by  her,  unconsciously  huddling  to  her  side,  with  his  hand 
thrust  under  her  arm  and  occasionally  pressing  it — she  had 
told  him  that  she  could  suffer  that  much  of  a  caress  without 
detriment  to  her  driving. 

It  was  a  bright,  scented  day,  heavily  coloured  with  green 
and  gold  and  white ;  for  the  new  grass  was  up  in  the  pas- 
tures, releasing  the  farmer  from  many  anxious  cares,  and 
the  buttercups  were  thick  both  on  the  grazing  lands  and  on 
the  innings  where  the  young  hay  stood,  still  green ;  the  water 
courses  were  marked  with  the  thick  dumpings  of  the  may, 
walls  of  green-teased  white  streaking  here  and  there  across 
the  pastures,  while  under  the  boughs  the  thick  green  water 
lay  scummed  with  white  ranunculus,  and  edged  with  a  gaudy 
splashing  of  yellow  irises,  torches  among  the  never  silent 
reeds.  Above  it  all  the  sky  was  misty  and  full  of  shadows, 
a  low  soft  cloud,  occasionally  pierced  with  sunlight. 

"It'll  rain  before  night,"  said  Joanna. 

"What  makes  you  think  that  ?" 

"The  way  of  the  wind,  and  those  clouds  moving  low — 
and  the  way  you  see  Rye  hill  all  clear  with  the  houses  on 
it — and  the  way  the  sheep  are  grazing  with  their  heads  to 
leeward." 

"Do  you  think  they  know  ?" 

"Of  course  they  know.  You'd  be  surprised  at  the  things 
beasts  know,  Martin." 

"Well,  it  won't  matter  if  it  does  rain — we'll  be  home 
before  night.  I'm  glad  we're  going  down  on  the  Ness — I'm 
sure  it's  wonderful." 

"It's  a  tedious  hole." 

"That's  what  you  think." 

"I  know — I've  been  there." 

"Then  it's  very  sweet  of  you  to  come  again  with  me." 

"It'll  be  different  with  you." 

She  was  driving  him  by  way  of  Broomhill,  for  that  was 


JOANNA    GODDEN  121 

another  place  which  had  fired  his  imagination,  though  to 
her  it  too  was  a  tedious  hole.  Martin  could  not  forget  the 
Broomliill  of  old  days — the  glamour  of  taverns  and  churches 
and  streets  lay  over  the  few  desolate  houses  and  ugly  little 
new  church  which  huddled  under  the  battered  sea-wall. 
Great  reedy  pools  still  remained  from  the  thirteenth  century- 
floods,  brackish  on  the  flat  seashore,  where  the  staked  keddle 
nets  showed  that  the  mackerel  were  beginning  to  come  into 
Rye  Bay. 

"Nothing  but  fisher-folk  around  here,"  said  Joanna  con- 
temptuously— "you'll  see  'em  all  in  the  Summer,  men,  women 
and  children,  with  heaps  of  mackerel  that  they  pack  in  boxes 
for  London  and  such  places — so  much  mackerel  they  get 
that  there's  nothing  else  ate  in  the  place  for  the  season,  and 
yet  if  you  want  fish-guts  for  manure  they  make  you  pay 
inland  prices,  and  do  your  own  carting." 

"I  think  it's  a  delicious  place,"  he  retorted,  teasing  her, 
"I've  a  mind  to  bring  you  here  for  our  hone\mioon." 

"Martin,  you'd  never !  You  told  me  you  were  taking  me 
to  foreign  parts,  and  I've  told  Mrs.  Southland  and  Mrs. 
Furncse  and  Maudie  Vine  and  half  a  dozen  more  all  about 
my  going  to  Paris  and  seeing  the  sights  and  hearing  French 
spoken." 

"Yes — perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  go  abroad ;  Broom- 
hill  is  wonderful,  but  you  in  Paris  will  be  more  wonderful 
than  Broomhill — even  in  the  days  before  the  fiood." 

"I  want  to  see  the  Eiffel  Tower — where  they  make  the 
lemonade — and  I  want  to  buy  myself  something  really  chick 
in  the  way  of  hats." 

"Joanna — do  you  know  the  hat  which  suits  you  best?" 

"Which?"  she  asked  eagerly,  with  some  hoi)e  for  the 
feathers. 

"The  straw  hat  you  tie  on  over  your  hair  when  you  go 
out  to  the  chickens  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"That  old  thing!  Why!  My!  Lor!  Martin!  That's  an 
old  basket  that  I  tie  under  my  chin  with  a  neckcrcher  of 
poor  father's." 


122  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"It  suits  you  better  than  any  hat  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix — 
it's  brown  and  golden  like  yourself,  and  your  hair  comes 
creeping  and  curling  from  under  it,  and  there's  a  shadow 
on  your  face,  over  your  eyes — the  shadow  stops  just  above 
your  mouth — your  mouth  is  all  of  your  face  that  I  can  see 
dearly,  and  it's  your  mouth  that  I  love  most.  .  .  ." 

He  suddenly  kissed  it,  ignoring  her  business  with  the 
reins  and  the  chances  of  the  road,  pulling  her  round  in  her 
seat  and  covering  her  face  with  his,  so  that  his  eyelashes 
stroked  her  cheek.  She  drew  her  hands  up  sharply  to  her 
breast,  and  with  the  jerk  the  horse  stopped. 

For  a  few  moments  they  stayed  so,  then  he  released  her 
and  they  moved  on.  Neither  of  them  spoke ;  the  tears  were 
in  Joanna's  eyes  and  in  her  heart  was  a  devouring  tender- 
ness that  made  it  ache.  The  trap  lurched  in  the  deep  ruts 
of  the  road,  which  now  had  become  a  mass  of  shingle  and 
gravel,  skirting  the  beach.  Queer  sea  plants  grew  in  the 
ruts,  the  little  white  sea-campions  with  their  fat  seed-boxes 
filled  the  furrows  of  the  road  as  with  a  foam— it  seemed 
a  pity  and  a  shame  to  crush  them,  and  one  could  tell  by 
their  fresh  growth  how  long  it  was  since  wheels  had  passed 
that  way. 

At  Jury's  Gap,  a  long  white-daubed  coastguard  station 
marked  the  end  of  the  road.  Only  a  foot-track  ran  out  to 
the  Ness.  They  left  the  horse  and  trap  at  the  station  and 
went  on  afoot. 

"I  told  you  it  was  a  tedious  place,"  said  Joanna.  Like 
a  great  many  busy  people  she  did  not  like  walking,  which 
she  always  looked  upon  as  a  waste  of  time.  Martin  could 
seldom  persuade  her  to  come  for  a  long  walk. 

It  was  a  long  walk  up  the  Ness,  and  the  going  was  bad, 
owing  to  the  shingle.  The  sea-campion  grew  everywhere, 
and  in  sunny  corners  the  yellow-horned  poppy  put  little 
spots  of  colour  into  a  landscape  of  pinkish  grey.  The  sea 
was  the  same  colour  as  the  land,  for  the  sun  had  sunk  away 
into  the  low  thick  heavens,  leaving  the  sea  an  unrelieved, 
tossed  dun  waste. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  123 

The  wind  came  tearing  across  Rye  Bay  with  a  moan, 
lifting  all  the  waves  into  little  sharp  bitter  crests. 

"We'll  get  the  rain,"  said  Joanna  sagely. 

"I  don't  care  if  we  do,"  said  Martin, 

"You  haven't  brought  your  overcoat." 

"Never  mind  that." 

"I  do  mind." 

His  robust  appearance — ^his  broad  back  and  shoulders, 
thick,  vigorous  and  swarthy  skin — only  magnified  his  pathos 
in  her  eyes.  It  was  pitiful  that  this  great  thing  should  be 
so  frail.  .  .  .  He  could  pick  her  up  with  both  hands  on 
her  waist,  and  hold  her  up  before  him,  the  big  Joanna — 
and  yet  she  must  take  care  of  him. 


§  17 

An  hour's  walking  brought  them  to  the  end  of  the  Ness 
— to  a  strange  forsaken  country  of  coastguard  stations  and 
lonely  taverns  and  shingle  tracks.  The  lighthouse  stood 
only  a  few  feet  above  the  sea.  at  the  end  of  the  point,  and 
immediately  before  it  the  water  dropped  to  sinister,  glaucous 
depths. 

"Well,  it  ain't  much  to  see,"  said  Joanna. 

"It's  wonderful,"  said  Martin — "it's  terrible." 

He  stood  looking  out  to  sea,  into  the  channel  streaked 
with  green  and  grey,  as  if  he  would  draw  France  out  of 
the  southward  fogs.  He  felt  halfway  to  France  .  .  .  here 
on  the  end  of  this  lonely  crane,  with  water  each  side  of 
him  and  ahead,  and  behind  him  llu-  shingle  which  was  the 
uttermost  of  Kent. 

"Joanna — don't  ynu  fed  it  too?" 

"Yes — maybe  T  do.  It's  queer  and  lonesome — I'm  glad 
I've  got  you,  Martin." 

She  suddenly  came  close  to  him  and  put  out  her  arms, 
hiding  her  face  against  his  heart, 

'Child— what  is"  it?" 


«/ 


124  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"I  dunno.  Maybe  it's  this  place,  but  I  feel  scared.  Oh, 
Martin,  you'll  never  leave  me?  You'll  always  be  good  to 
me?  .  .  ." 

"I  .  .  .  oh,  my  own  precious  thing." 

He  held  her  close  to  him  and  they  both  trembled — she 
with  her  first  fear  of  those  undcfinable  forces  and  associa- 
tions which  go  to  make  the  mystery  of  place,  he  with  the 
passion  of  his  faithfulness,  of  his  vows  of  devotion,  too 
fierce  and  sacrificial  even  to  express. 

"Let's  go  and  have  tea,"  she  said,  suddenly  disengaging 
herself,  "I'll  get  the  creeps  if  we  stop  out  here  on  the  beach 
much  longer — reckon  I've  got  'em  now,  and  I  never  was 
the  one  to  be  silly  like  that,  I  told  you  it  was  a  tedious 
hole." 

They  went  to  the  Britannia,  on  the  eastern  side  of  the 
hill.  The  inn  looked  surprised  to  see  them,  but  agreed  to 
put  the  kettle  on.  They  sat  together  in  a  little  queer,  dim 
room,  smelling  of  tar  and  fish,  and  bright  with  the  flames  of 
wreck- wood.  Joanna  had  soon  lost  her  fears — she  talked 
animatedly,  telling  him  of  the  progress  of  her  spring  wheat; 
of  the  dead  owl  that  had  fallen  out  of  the  beams  of  Brenzett 
church  during  morning  prayers  last  Sunday,  of  the  shocking 
way  they  had  managed  their  lambing  at  Beggars'  Bush,  of 
King  Edward's  Coronation  that  was  coming  off  in  June. 

"I  know  of  something  else  that's  coming  off  in  June," 
said  Martin. 

"Our  wedding?" 

"Surelye." 

"I'm  going  into  Folkestone  next  week,  to  that  shop  where 
I  bought  my  party  gown." 

"And  I  am  going  to  Mr.  Pratt,  to  tell  him  to  put  up  our 
banns,  or  we  shan't  have  time  to  be  cried  three  times  before 
the  first  of  June." 

"The  first! — I  told  you  the  twenty-fourth." 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  wait  till  the  twenty-fourth.  You 
promised  me  June." 

"But  I  shan't  have  got  in  my  hay,  and  the  shearers  are 


JOANNA   GODDEN  125 

coming  on  the  fourteenth — you  have  to  look  weeks  ahead, 
and  that  was  the  only  date  Harmer  had  free." 

"Joanna." 

Her  name  was  a  summons,  almost  stern,  and  she  looked 
up.  She  was  still  sitting  at  the  table,  stirring  the  last  of 
her  tea.  He  sat  under  the  window  on  an  old  sea-chest,  and 
had  just  lit  his  pipe. 

"Come  here,  Joanna." 

She  came  obediently,  and  sat  beside  him,  and  he  put  his 
arm  round  her.  The  blue  and  ruddy  flicker  of  the  wreck- 
wood  lit  up  the  dark  day. 

"I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about  this,  and  I  know  now — • 
there  is  only  one  thing  between  us,  and  that's  Ansdore." 

"How  d'you  mean?    It  ain't  between  us." 

"It  is — again  and  again  you  seem  to  be  putting  Ansdore 
in  the  place  of  our  love.  What  other  woman  on  God's 
earth  would  put  off  her  marriage  to  fit  in  with  the  sheep- 
shearing?" 

"I  ain't  putting  it  off.  We  haven't  fixed  the  day  yet,  and 
I'm  just  telling  you  to  fix  a  day  that's  suitable  and  con- 
venient." 

"You  know  I  always  meant  to  marry  you  the  first  week 
in  June." 

"And  you  know,  as  I've  told  you,  that  I  can't  take  the 
time  off  then." 

"The  time  off!  You're  not  a  servant.  You  can  leave 
Ansdore  any  day  you  choose." 

"Not  when  the  shearing's  on.  You  don't  understand, 
Martin — I  can't  have  all  the  shearers  up  and  nobody  to  look 
after  'em." 

"What  about  your  looker? — or  Broadhurst?  You  don't 
trust  anybody  but  yourself." 

"You're  justabout  right — I  don't." 

"Don't  you  trust  me?" 

"Not  to  shear  sheep." 

Martin  laughed  ruefully. 


126  JOANNA   GODDEN 

"You're  very  sensible,  Joanna — unshakably  so.  But  I'm 
not  asking  you  to  trust  me  with  the  sheep,  but  to  trust  me 
with  yourself.  Don't  misunderstand  me,  dear.  I'm  not 
asking  you  to  marry  me  at  the  beginning  of  the  month  just 
because  I  haven't  the  patience  to  wait  till  the  end.  It  isn't 
that,  I  swear  it.  But  don't  you  see  that  if  you  fix  our  mar- 
riage to  fit  in  with  the  farm-work,  it'll  simply  be  beginning 
things  in  the  wrong  way?  As  we  begin  we  shall  have  to 
go  on,  and  we  can't  go  on  settling  and  ordering  our  life 
according  to  Ansdore's  requirements — it's  a  wrong  prin- 
ciple. Think,  darling,"  and  he  drew  her  close  against  his 
heart,  "we  shall  want  to  see  our  children — and  will  you 
refuse,  just  because  that  would  mean  that  you  would  have 
to  lie  up  and  keep  quiet  and  not  go  about  doing  all  your 
own  business?" 

Joanna  shivered. 

"Oh,  Martin,  don't  talk  of  such  things." 

'Why  not?" 

She  had  given  him  some  frank  and  graphic  details  about 
the  accouchement  of  her  favourite  cow,  and  he  did  not 
understand  that  the  subject  became  different  when  it  was 
human  and  personal. 

"Because  I — because  we  ain't  married  yet." 

"Joanna,  you  little  prude !" 

She  saw  that  he  was  displeased  and  drew  closer  to  him, 
slipping  her  arms  round  his  neck,  so  that  he  could  feel 
the  roughness  of  her  work-worn  hands  against  it. 

"I'm  not  shocked — only  it's  so  wonderful — I  can't  abear 
talking  of  it.  .  .  .  Martin,  if  we  had  one  ...  I  should 
justabout  die  of  joy.  .  .  ." 

He  gripped  her  to  him  fiercely,  unable  to  speak.  Some- 
how it  seemed  as  if  he  had  just  seen  deeper  into  Joanna 
than  during  all  the  rest  of  his  courtship.  He  moved  his 
lips  over  her  bright  straying  hair — her  face  was  hidden  in 
his  sleeve. 

"Then  we'll  stop  at  Mr.  Pratt's  on  our  way  home  and 
ask  him  to  put  up  the  banns  at  once?" 


JOANNA   GODDEN  127 

"Oh,  no—"  lifting  herself  sharply— "I  didn't  mean  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  it  won't  make  any  difference  to  our  marriage, 
being  married  three  weeks  later — but  it'll  make  an  unac- 
countable difference  to  my  wool  prices  if  the  shearers  don't 
do  their  job  proper — and  then  there's  the  hay," 

"On  the  contrary,  child — it  will  make  a  difference  to  our 
marriage.  We  shall  have  started  with  Ansdore  between 
us." 

"What  nonsense." 

"Well,  I  can't  argue  with  you — you  must  do  as  you  like. 
My  wife  is  a  very  strong-willed  person,  who  will  keep  her 
husband  in  proper  order.  But  he  loves  her  enough  to  bear 
it." 

He  kissed  her  gently  as  they  both  stood  up.  At  the  same 
time  there  was  a  sharp  scud  of  rain  against  the  window. 

§  18 

The  journey  home  was  quieter  and  dimmer  than  the 
journey  out.  Their  voices  and  footsteps  were  muflled  in 
the  roar  of  the  wind,  which  had  risen  from  sorrow  to  anger. 
The  rain  beat  in  their  faces  as  they  walked  arm  in  arm 
over  the  shingle.  They  could  not  hurry,  for  at  every  step 
their  footsteps  sank. 

"I  said  it  was  a  tedious  hole,"  reiterated  Joanna,  "and 
now  perhaps  you'll  believe  me — the  folk  here  walk  with 
boards  on  their  feet,  what  they  call  backstays.  Our  shoes 
will  be  justabout  ruined." 

She  was  not  qiu'tc  happy,  for  she  felt  that  Martin  was 
displeased  with  her,  thouf^h  he  made  no  reproaches.  lie 
did  not  like  her  to  arrange  their  wedding  day  to  fit  in  with 
the  shearing.  But  what  else  could  she  do?  If  she  was 
away  when  the  shearers  came,  there'd  be  no  end  to  their 
goings  on  with  the  girls,  and  besides,  who'd  see  that  the 
work  was  done  i)roper  and  the  tegs  not  scared  out  of  their 
lives? 


128  JOANNA   GODDEN 

It  was  only  six  o'clock,  but  a  premature  darkness  was 
falling  as  the  clouds  dropped  over  Dunge  Marsh,  and  the 
rain  hung  like  a  curtain  over  Rye  Bay,  blotting  out  all  dis- 
tances, showing  them  nothing  but  the  crumbling,  uncertain 
track.  In  half  an  hour  they  were  both  wet  through  to  their 
shoulders,  for  the  rain  came  down  with  all  the  drench  of 
May.  Joanna  could  see  that  Martin  was  beginning  to  be 
worried  about  himself — he  was  worried  about  her  too,  but 
he  was  more  preoccupied  with  his  own  health  than  other 
men  she  knew,  the  only  way  he  occasionally  betrayed  the 
weak  foundations  of  his  stalwart  looks. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,  we'll  have  to  sit  for  an  hour  in  the 
dog-cart  after  we  get  to  Jury's  Gap.  You'll  catch  your 
death  of  cold,  Joanna." 

"Not  I !  I  often  say  I'm  like  our  Romney  sheep — I  can 
stand  all  winds  and  waters.  But  you're  not  used  to  it  like 
I  am — you  should  ought  to  have  brought  your  overcoat." 

"How  was  I  to  know  it  would  turn  out  like  this?" 

"I  told  you  it  would  rain." 

"But  not  till  after  we'd  started." 

Joanna  said  nothing.  She  accepted  Martin's  rather  unrea- 
sonable displeasure  without  protest,  for  she  felt  guilty  about 
other  things.  Was  he  right,  after  all,  when  he  said  that 
she  was  putting  Ansdore  between  them?  .  .  .  She  did  not 
feel  that  she  was,  any  more  than  she  was  putting  Ansdore 
between  herself  and  Ellen.  But  she  hated  him  to  have  the 
thought.  Should  she  give  in  and  tell  him  he  could  call  on 
Mr.  Pratt  on  their  way  home?  .  .  .  No,  there  was  plenty 
of  time  to  make  up  her  mind  about  that.  Today  was  only 
Tuesday,  and  any  day  up  till  Saturday  would  do  for  put- 
ting in  notice  of  banns  .  ,  .  she  must  think  things  over 
before  committing  herself  ...  it  wasn't  only  the  shearers 
— there  was  the  hay.  .  .  . 

Thus  they  came,  walking  apart  in  their  own  thoughts,  to 
Jury's  Gap.  In  a  few  moments  the  horse  was  put  to,  and 
they  were  lurching  in  the  ruts  of  the  road  to  Broomhill. 
The  air  was  full  of  the  sound  of  hissing  rain,  as  it  fell  on 


JOANNA   GODDEN  129 

the  shingle  and  in  the  sea  and  on  the  great  brackish  pools 
of  the  old  flood.  Round  the  pools  were  thick  beds  of  reeds, 
shivering  and  moaning,  while  along  the  dykes  the  willows 
tossed  their  branches  and  the  thorn-trees  rattled. 

"It'll  freshen  up  the  grass,"  said  Joanna,  trying  to  cheer 
Martin, 

"I  was  a  fool  not  to  bring  my  overcoat,"  he  grumbled. 

Then  suddenly  her  heart  went  out  to  him  more  than  ever, 
because  he  was  fractious  and  fretting  about  himself.  She 
took  one  hand  oft  the  reins  and  pressed  his  as  it  lay  wann 
between  her  arm  and  her  side. 

"Reckon  you're  my  own  silly  child,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"I'm  sorry,  Jo,"  he  replied  humbly,  "I  know  I'm  being 
a  beast  and  worrying  you.  But  I'm  worried  about  you  too 
— you're  as  wet  as  I  am." 

"No,  I'm  not.  I've  got  my  coat.  I'm  not  at  all  worried 
about  myself — nor  about  you,  neither."  She  could  not  con- 
ceive of  a  man  taking  cold  through  a  wetting. 

She  had  planned  for  him  to  come  back  to  supper  with 
her  at  Ansdore,  but  with  that  fussincss  which  seemed  so 
strange  and  pathetic,  he  insisted  on  going  straight  back  to 
North  Farthing  to  change  his  clothes. 

"You  get  into  a  hot  bath  with  some  mustard,"  he  said  to 
her,  meaning  what  he  would  do  himself. 

"Ha!  Ha!"  laughed  Joanna,  at  such  an  idea. 


§  19 

She  difl  not  sec  Martin  for  the  next  two  days.  He  had 
promised  to  go  up  to  London  for  the  first  night  of  a  friend's 
play,  and  was  staying  till  Friday  morning.  She  missed  him 
very  much — he  used  to  come  to  Ansdore  every  day,  some- 
times more  than  once,  and  they  always  had  at  least  one 
meal  together.  She  bro<'iflcd  about  him  too,  for  she  could 
not  rid  herself  of  the  thought  that  she  had  failed  him  in 


130  JOANNA   GODDEN 

her  refusal  to  be  married  before  the  shearing.  He  was  dis- 
appointed— he  could  not  understand.  .  .  . 

She  looked  round  on  Ansdore  almost  distrustfully  .  .  . 
was  it  true  that  she  loved  it  too  much?  The  farm  looked 
very  lonely  and  bare,  with  the  mist  hanging  in  the  door- 
ways, and  the  rain  hissing  into  the  midden,  while  the  bush 
— as  the  trees  were  called  which  sheltered  nearly  every 
marsh  dwelling — sighed  and  tossed  above  the  barn-roofs. 
She  suddenly  realised  that  she  did  not  love  it  as  much  as 
she  used. 

The  knowledge  came  like  a  slap.  She  suddenly  knew 
that  for  the  last  four  months  her  love  for  Martin  had  been 
eating  into  her  love  for  Ansdore.  ...  It  was  like  the  sun 
shining  on  a  fire  and  putting  it  out — now  that  the  sun  had 
gone,  she  saw  that  her  hearth  was  cold.  It  was  for  Martin 
she  had  sown  her  Spring  wheat,  for  Martin  she  had  broken 
up  twelve  acres  of  pasture  by  the  Kent  Ditch,  for  Martin 
she  would  shear  her  sheep  and  cut  her  hay.  .  .  . 

Then  since  it  was  all  for  Martin,  what  an  owl  she  was 
to  sacrifice  him  to  it,  to  put  it  before  his  wants  and  needs. 
He  wanted  her,  he  needed  her,  and  she  was  offering  him 
bales  of  wool  and  cocks  of  hay.  Of  course  in  this  matter 
she  was  right  and  he  was  wrong — it  would  be  much  better 
to  wait  just  a  week  or  two  till  after  the  shearing  and  the 
hay-making — but  for  the  first  time  Joanna  saw  that  even 
right  could  surrender.  Even  though  she  was  right,  she 
could  give  way  to  him,  bend  her  will  to  his.  After  all, 
nothing  really  mattered  except  his  love,  his  good  favour — 
better  that  she  should  muddle  her  shearing  and  her  crops 
than  the  first  significant  weeks  of  their  married  life.  He 
should  put  his  dear  foot  upon  her  neck — for  the  last  of 
her  pride  was  gone  in  that  discovery  of  the  dripping  day, 
the  discovery  that  her  plans,  her  ambitions,  her  life,  herself, 
had  their  worth  only  in  the  knowledge  that  they  belonged 
to  him. 

It  was  on  Thursday  afternoon  that  Joanna  finally  b'^at 
Ansdore  out  of  her  love.    She  cried  a  little,  for  she  wislied 


JOANNA    GODDEN  131 

that  it  had  happened  earlier,  before  Martin  went  away. 
Still,  it  was  his  going  that  had  shown  her  at  last  clearly 
where  she  belonged.  She  thought  of  writing  and  telling 
him  of  her  surrender,  but  like  most  of  her  kind  she  shrank 
from  writing  letters  except  when  dircly  necessary ;  and  she 
would  see  Martin  tomorrow — he  had  promised  to  come  to 
Ansdore  straight  from  the  station. 

So  instead  of  writing  her  letter,  she  went  and  washed 
the  tears  oft  her  face  over  the  sink  and  sat  down  to  a  cup 
of  tea  and  a  piece  of  bread  and  dripping  with  Mrs.  Tolhurst 
and  Milly  Pump.  When  Ellen  was  at  home,  Joanna  was 
lofty  and  exclusive,  and  had  her  meals  in  the  dining-room 
— she  did  not  think  it  right  that  her  little  sister,  with  all 
her  new  accomplishments  and  elegancies,  should  lead  the 
common,  kitchen  life — also,  of  course,  when  Martin  came 
they  sat  down  in  state,  with  pink  wine-glasses  beside  their 
tumblers.  But  when  she  was  alone,  she  much  preferred 
a  friendly  meal  with  Milly  and  Mrs.  Tolhurst — she  even 
joined  them  in  pouring  her  tea  into  her  saucer,  and  sat  with 
it  cooling  on  her  spread  fingers,  her  elbow  on  the  cloth.  She 
unbent  from  mistress  to  fellow-worker,  and  they  talked  the 
scandal  of  a  dozen  farms. 

"It's  as  I  said,  at  Yokes  Court,"  said  Mrs.  Tolhurst — 
"there's  no  good  young  Mus'  Southland  saying  as  the  girl's 
mother  sent  for  her — /  know  better." 

"I  saw  Mrs.  Lambardc  after  church  on  Sunday,"  said 
Joanna,  "and  she  wasn't  expecting  Elsie  then." 

"Elsie  went  before  her  box  did,"  said  Milly  Pump,  "Rill 
Piper  fetched  it  along  after  her,  as  he  told  me  himself." 

"I'm  sure  it's  Tom  Southland,"  said  Joanna. 

"Surelye,"  said  Mrs.  Tolhurst,  "and  all  the  more  as  he's 
been  saying  at  the  Woolpack  that  the  old  Squire's  been 
hanging  around  after  the  girl — which  reminds  me,  Miss 
Joanna,  as  I  hear  Mus'  Martin's  back  this  afternoon." 

"This  afternoon)     He  said  tomorrow  morning." 

"Well,  he's  come  this  afternoon.  Broadhurst  met  him 
driving  from  Rye  station." 


132  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Then  he's  sure  to  be  over  tonight.  You  get  the  wine- 
glasses out,  Mrs.  Tolhurst,  and  spread  in  the  dining-room." 

She  rose  up  from  table,  once  more  apart  from  her  ser- 
vants. Her  brain  was  humming  with  surprised  joy — Martin 
was  back,  she  would  soon  see  him,  he  would  be  sure  to  come 
to  her.  And  then  she  would  tell  him  of  her  surrender,  and 
the  cloud  would  be  gone  from  their  love. 

With  beating  heart  she  ran  upstairs  to  change  her  dress 
and  tidy  herself,  for  he  might  come  at  any  moment.  There 
was  a  red-brown  velvet  dress  he  particularly  liked — she 
pulled  it  out  of  her  drawer  and  smoothed  its  folds.  Her 
drawers  were  crammed  and  heavy  with  the  garments  she 
was  to  wear  as  Martin's  wife;  there  were  silk  blouses 
bought  at  smart  shops  in  Folkestone  and  Marlingate ;  there 
was  a  pair  of  buckled  shoes — size  eight ;  there  were  piles 
of  neat  longcloth  and  calico  underclothing,  demure  night- 
dresses buttoning  to  the  chin,  stiff  petticoats,  and  what  she 
called  "petticoat  bodies,"  fastening  down  the  front  with 
linen  buttons,  and  with  tiny,  shy  frills  of  embroidery  at 
the  neck  and  armholes. 

She  put  on  the  brown  dress,  and  piled  up  her  hair  against 
the  big  comb.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  by  the 
light  of  the  candles  she  had  put  to  light  up  the  rainy  evening. 
Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  bright,  and  her  hair 
and  her  dress  were  the  same  soft,  burning  colour.  .  .  . 
When  would  Martin  come? 

Then  suddenly  she  thought  of  something  even  better  than 
his  coming.  She  thought  of  herself  going  over  to  North 
Farthing  House  and  telling  him  that  she  had  changed  her 
mind  and  that  she  was  his  just  as  soon  as  ever  he  wanted 
her.  .  .  .  Her  breath  came  fast  at  the  inspiration — it  would 
be  better  than  waiting  for  him  here;  it  gave  to  her  sur- 
render the  spectacular  touch  which  hitherto  it  had  lacked 
and  her  nature  demanded.  The  rain  was  coming  down  the 
wind  almost  as  fiercely  and  as  fast  as  it  had  come  on  Tues- 
day night,  but  Joanna,  the  marsh-born,  had  never  cared  for 
weather.    She  merely  laced  on  her  heavy  boots  and  bundled 


JOANNA   GODDEN  133 

into  her  father's  overcoat.  Then  she  put  out  a  hand  for 
an  old  hat,  and  suddenly  she  remembered  the  hat  Martin 
had  said  he  liked  her  in  above  all  others.  It  was  an  old 
rush  basket,  soft  and  shapeless  with  age,  and  she  tied  it 
over  her  head  with  her  father's  red  and  white  spotted 
handkerchief. 

She  was  now  ready,  and  all  she  had  to  do  was  to  run 
down  and  tell  Airs.  Tolhurst  that  if  Mr.  Martin  called 
while  she  was  out  he  was  to  be  asked  to  wait.  She  was 
not  really  afraid  of  missing  him,  for  there  were  few  short 
cuts  on  the  marsh,  where  the  long  way  round  of  the  road 
was  often  the  only  way — but  she  hoped  she  would  reach 
North  Farthing  before  he  left  it,  she  did  not  want  anything 
to  be  taken  from  her  surrender,  it  must  be  absolute  and 
complete  .  .  .  the  fires  of  her  own  sacrifice  were  kindled 
and  were  burning  her  heart. 


§  20 

She  did  not  meet  Martin  on  the  Brodnyx  Road ;  only  the 
wind  was  with  her,  and  the  rain.  She  turned  aside  to  North 
Farthing  between  the  Woolpack  and  the  village,  and  still 
she  did  not  meet  him — and  now  she  really  thought  that  she 
woulfl  arrive  in  time.  On  either  side  of  the  track  she  fol- 
lowed, Martin's  sheep  were  grazing — that  was  his  land, 
those  were  his  dykes  and  willows,  ahead  of  her  were  the 
lighted  windows  of  his  house.  She  wondered  what  he 
would  say  when  he  saw  her.  Would  he  be  much  surprised? 
She  had  come  to  North  Farthing  once  or  twice  before,  but 
not  very  often.  If  he  was  not  surprised  to  sec  her,  he 
would  be  sur])riscd  when  she  told  him  why  she  had  come. 
She  pictured  how  he  would  receive  her  news — with  his 
arms  round  her,  with  his  kisses  on  her  mouth. 

Her  arrival  was  a  check — the  formalities  of  her  be- 
trothcfl's  house  never  failed  to  upset  her.  To  berMti  with, 
she  had  to  face  that  impertinent  upstart  of  a  Nell  Kaddish, 


134  JOANNA   GODDEN 

all  tricked  out  in  a  black  dress  and  white  apron  and  cap 
and  collar  and  cuffs,  and  she  only  a  cowman's  daughter 
with  a  face  like  a  plum,  and  no  sense  or  notions  at  all  till 
she  came  to  Farthing,  since  when,  as  everyone  knew,  her 
skirts  had  grown  shorter  and  her  nose  whiter  and  her  hair 
frizzier  and  her  ways  more  knowing. 

"Good  evening,  Nell,"  said  Joanna,  covering  her  embar- 
rassment with  patronage,  "is  Mr,  Martin  at  home?" 

"Yes,  he  is,"  said  Nell,  "he  came  back  this  afternoon." 

"I  know  that,  of  course.    I  want  to  see  him,  please." 

"I'm  not  sure  if  he's  gone  up  to  bed.  Come  in,  and  I'll 
go  and  look." 

"Up  to  bed!" 

"Yes,  he's  feeling  poorly.     That's  w^hy  he  came  home." 

"Poorly,  what's  the  matter?"  Joanna  pushed  past  Nell 
into  the  house. 

"I  dunno — a  cold  or  cough.  He  told  me  to  bring  him 
some  tea  and  put  a  hot  brick  in  his  bed.  Sir  Harry  ain't 
in  yet." 

Joanna  marched  up  the  hall  to  the  door  of  Martin's  study. 
She  stopped  and  listened  for  a  moment,  but  could  hear 
nothing  except  the  beating  of  her  own  heart.  Then,  without 
knocking,  she  went  in.  The  room  was  ruddy  and  dim  with 
firelight,  and  at  first  she  thought  it  was  empty,  but  the  next 
minute  she  saw  Martin  huddled  in  an  arm  chair,  a  tea-tray 
on  a  low  stool  beside  him. 

"Martin !" 

He  started  up  out  of  a  kind  of  sleep,  and  blinked  at  her. 

"Jo!     Is  that  you?" 

"Yes.  I've  come  over  to  tell  you  I'll  marry  you  whenever 
you  want.     Martin  dear,  what's  the  matter?    Are  you  ill?" 

"It's  nothing  much — I've  caught  cold,  and  thought  I'd 
better  come  home.     Colds  always  make  me  feel  wretched." 

She  could  see  that  he  was  anxious  about  himself,  and  in 
her  pity  she  forgave  him  for  having  ignored  her  surrender. 
She  knelt  down  beside  him,  and  took  both  his  restless  hands. 

"Have  you  had  your  tea,  dear?" 


JOANNA    GODDEN  135 

"No.  I  asked  her  to  bring  it,  and  then  I  sort  of  fell 
asleep.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  give  it  to  you." 

She  poured  out  his  tea,  giving  him  a  hot  black  cup,  with 
plenty  of  sugar,  as  they  like  it  on  the  marsh.  He  drank  it 
eagerly,  and  felt  better. 

"Jo,  how  good  of  you  to  come  over  and  see  me.  Who 
told  you  I  was  back?" 

"I  heard  it  from  Milly  Pump,  and  she  heard  it  from 
Broadhurst." 

"I  meant  to  send  a  message  round  to  you.  I  hope  I'll  be 
all  right  tomorrow." 

"Reckon  you  will,  dear.  .  .  .  Martin,  you  heard  what  I 
said — about  marrying  you  when  you  want?" 

"Do  you  mean  it  ?" 

"Of  course  I  mean  it — I  came  over  a-purpose  to  tell  you. 
While  you  was  away  I  did  some  thinking,  and  I  found  that 
Ansdore  doesn't  matter  to  me  what  it  used.  It's  only  you 
that  matters  now." 

She  was  crouching  at  his  feet,  and  he  stooped  over  her, 
taking  her  in  his  arms,  drawing  her  back  between  his 
knees — 

"You  noble,  beloved  thing   ..." 

The  burning  touch  of  his  lips  and  face  reminded  her  that 
he  was  ill,  so  the  consecration  of  her  sacrifice  lost  a  little 
of  its  joy. 

"You're  feverish — you  should  ought  to  go  to  bed." 

"I'm  going — when  I've  had  another  cup  of  tea.  Will  you 
give  me  another,  chikl?" 

"I've  a  mind  to  go  home  through  Brodnyx  anrl  ask  Dr. 
Taylor  to  call  arounrl." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  I'm  bad  enough  for  ,i  doctor — I  catch 
cold  easily,  and  I  was  wet  through  the  other  night." 

"Was  it  that!"     Her  voice  shook  with  consternation. 

"I  expect  so — but  don't  fret,  darling  Jo.  It's  nothing. 
I'll  be  qtiite  right  tomorrow — I  feel  better  already." 

"I  think  you  should  ought  to  see  a  doctor,  though.     I'll 


136  JOANNA    GODDEN 

call  in  on  my  way  back.  I'll  call  in  on  Mr.  Pratt,  too,  and 
tell  him  to  start  crying  us  next  Sunday." 

"That's  my  business — I'll  go  tomorrow.  But  are  you 
sure,  darling,  you  can  make  such  a  sacrifice?  I'm  afraid 
I've  been  a  selfish  beast,  and  I'm  spoiling  your  plans." 

"Oh  no,  you  ain't.  I  feel  now  as  if  I  wanted  to  get  mar- 
ried more'n  anything  wotsumdever.  The  shearing  ull  do 
proper — the  men  know  their  job — and  Broadhurst  ull  see 
to  the  hay.  They  dursn't  muck  things  up,  knowing  as  I'll 
be  home  to  see  to  it  by  July." 

"To  say  nothing  of  me,"  said  Martin,  pinching  her  ear. 

"To  say  nothing  of  you." 

"Joanna,  you've  got  on  the  old  hat.  .  .  ." 

"I  put  it  on  special." 

"Bless  you." 

He  pulled  her  down  to  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  for  a 
moment  they  huddled  together,  cheek  on  cheek.  The  open- 
ing of  the  door  made  Joanna  spring  virtuously  upright.  It 
was  Sir  Harry. 

"Hullo,  Joanna ! — ^you  here.  Hullo.  Martin  !  The  lovely 
Raddish  says  you've  come  home  middling  queer.  I  hope 
that  doesn't  mean  anything  serious." 

"I've  got  some  sort  of  a  chill,  and  I  feel  a  beast.  So  I 
thought  I'd  better  come  home." 

"I've  given  him  his  tea,"  said  Joanna,  "and  now  he  should 
ought  to  go  to  bed." 

Sir  Harry  looked  at  her.  She  struck  him  as  an  odd 
figure,  in  her  velvet  gown  and  basket  hat,  thick  boots  and 
man's  overcoat.  The  more  he  saw  of  her,  the  less  could 
he  think  what  to  make  of  her  as  a  daughter-in-law ;  but 
tonight  he  was  thankful  for  her  capable  managing — men- 
tally and  physically  he  was  always  clumsy  with  Martin  in 
illness.  He  found  it  hard  to  adapt  himself  to  the  occasional 
weakness  of  this  being  who  dominated  him  in  other  ways. 

"Do  you  think  he's  feverish?" 

Joanna  felt  Martin's  hands  again. 

"I  guess  he  is.    Maybe  he  wants  a  dose — or  a  cup  of  herb 


JOANNA    GODDEN  137 

tea  does  good,  they  say.  But  I'll  ask  Doctor  to  come  around. 
Martin,  I'm  going  now  this  drackly  minute,  and  I'll  call 
in  at  Mr.  Taylor's  and  at  Mr.  Pratt's." 

"Wait  till  tomorrow,  and  I'll  see  Pratt,"  said  Martin, 
unable  to  rid  himself  of  the  idea  that  a  bride  should  nnd 
such  an  errand  embarrassing. 

"I'd  sooner  go  myself  tonight.  Anyways  you  mustn't  go 
traipsing  around,  even  if  you  feel  better  tomorrow.  I'll 
settle  everything,  so  don't  you  fret." 

She  took  his  face  between  her  hands,  and  kissed  him  as 
if  he  was  a  child. 

"Good  night,  my  duck.  You  get  off  to  bed  and  keep 
warm." 

§  21 

She  worked  off  her  fears  in  action.  Having  given  notice 
of  the  banns  to  Mr.  Pratt,  sent  cl  Dr.  Taylor  to  North 
Farthing,  put  up  a  special  petition  for  Martin  in  her  evening 
prayers,  she  went  to  bed  and  sle[)t  soundly.  She  was  not 
an  anxious  soul,  and  a  man's  illness  never  struck  her  as 
particularly  alarming.  Men  were  hard  creatures — whose 
weaknesses  were  of  mind  and  character  rather  than  of 
body — and  though  Martin  was  softer  than  some,  she  could 
not  quite  discount  his  broad  back  and  shoulders,  his  strong, 
swinging  arms. 

She  drove  over  to  North  Farthing  soon  after  breakfast, 
ex])ccting  to  find  him,  in  spite  of  her  injunctions,  about  and 
waiting  for  her. 

"The  day's  warm,  and  maybe  he  won't  hurt  if  he  drives 
on  with  me  to  Honeychild" — the  thought  of  him  there  beside 
her  was  so  strong  that  she  could  almost  feel  his  hand  lying 
pressed  between  her  arm  and  her  heart. 

But  when  she  came  to  the  house  she  found  only  Sir  Harry 
prowling  in  the  hall. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,  Joanna.  I'm  anxious  about 
Martin." 


138  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"What's  the  matter  ?    What  did  Doctor  say  ?" 

"He  said  there's  congestion  of  the  lung  or  something. 
Martin  took  a  fit  of  the  shivers  after  you'd  gone,  and  of 
course  it  made  him  worse  when  the  doctor  said  the  magic 
word  'lung.'  He's  always  been  hipped  about  himself,  you 
know." 

"I'd  better  go  and  see  him." 

She  hitched  the  reins,  and  climbed  down  out  of  the  trap 
— stumbling  awkwardly  as  she  alighted,  for  she  had  begun 
to  tremble. 

"You  don't  think  he's  very  bad,  do  you  ?" 

"Can't  say.  I  wish  Taylor  ud  come.  He  said  he'd  be 
here  again  this  morning." 

Plis  voice  was  sharp  and  complaining,  for  anything  pain- 
ful always  made  him  exasperated.  Martin  lying  ill  in  bed, 
Martin  shivering  and  in  pain  and  in  a  funk  was  so  unlike 
the  rather  superior  being  whom  he  liked  to  pretend  bullied 
him,  that  he  felt  upset  and  rather  shocked.  He  gave  a  sigh 
of  relief  as  Joanna  ran  upstairs — he  told  himself  that  she 
was  a  good  practical  sort  of  woman,  and  handsome  when 
she  was  properly  dressed. 

She  had  never  been  upstairs  in  North  Farthing  House 
before,  but  she  found  Martin's  room  after  only  one  false 
entry — which  surprised  the  guilty  Raddish  sitting  at  Sir 
Harry's  dressing-table  and  smearing  his  hair  cream  on  her 
ignoble  head.  The  blinds  in  Martin's  room  were  down, 
and  he  was  half-sitting,  half-lying  in  bed,  with  his  head 
turned  away  from  her. 

"That  you,  Father? — has  Taylor  come?" 

No,  it's  me,  dearie.    I've  come  to  see  what  I  can  do  for 
you." 

The  sight  of  him  huddled  there  in  the  pillows,  restless, 
comfortless,  neglected,  wrung  her  heart.  Hitherto  her  love 
for  Martin  had  been  singularly  devoid  of  intimacy.  They 
had  kissed  each  other,  they  had  eaten  dinner  and  tea  and 
supper  together,  they  had  explored  the  three  marshes  in 
each  other's  company,  but  she  had  scarcely  ever  been  to 


JOANNA    GODDEN  139 

his  house,  never  seen  him  asleep,  and  in  normal  circum- 
stances would  have  perished  rather  than  gone  into  his  bed- 
room. Today  when  she  saw  him  there,  lying  on  his  wide, 
tumbled  bed,  among  his  littered  belongings — his  clothes 
strewn  untidily  on  the  floor,  his  books  on  their  shelves,  his 
pictures  that  struck  her  rigidity  as  indecent,  his  photographs 
of  people  who  had  touched  his  life,  some  perhaps  closely, 
but  were  unknown  to  her,  she  had  a  queer  sense  of  the 
revelation  of  poor,  pathetic  secrets.  This,  then,  was  Martin 
when  he  was  away  from  her — untidy,  sensual,  forlorn,  as 
all  men  were  .  .  .  she  bent  down  and  kissed  him. 

"Lovely  Jo"  ...  he  yielded  childish,  burning  lips,  then 
drew  away — "No,  you  mustn't  kiss  me — it  might  be  bad 
for  you." 

"Gammon,  dear.    'Tis  only  a  chill." 

She  saw  that  he  was  in  a  bate  about  himself,  so  after  her 
tender  beginnings,  she  became  rough.  She  made  him  sit 
up  while  she  shook  his  pillows,  then  she  made  him  lie  flat 
and  tucked  the  sheet  round  him  strenuously ;  she  scolded 
him  for  leaving  his  clothes  lying  about  on  the  floor.  She 
felt  as  if  her  love  for  him  was  only  just  beginning — the 
last  four  months  seemed  cold  and  formal  compared  with 
these  moments  of  warm  personal  service.  She  brought  him 
water  for  his  hands,  and  scrubbed  his  face  with  a  sponge 
to  his  intense  discomfort.  She  was  bawling  downstairs  to 
the  unlucky  Raddish  to  put  the  kettle  on  for  some  herb 
tea — since  an  intimate  cross-examination  revealed  that  he 
had  not  had  the  recommended  dose — when  the  doctor  ar- 
rived and  came  upstairs  with  Sir  Harry. 

He  imdid  a  good  deal  of  Joanna's  good  work — he  ordered 
the  blind  to  be  let  down  again,  and  he  refused  to  hack  her 
up  in  her  injunctions  to  the  [)aticnt  to  lie  flat — on  the  con- 
trary he  sent  for  more  pillows,  and  Martin  had  to  confess 
to  feeling  easier  when  he  was  pro[)iiC(l  up  against  them 
with  a  rug  round  his  shoulders.  He  then  announced  that 
he  would  send  for  a  nurse  from  Rye. 

"Oh,  but  I  can  manage,"  cried  Joanna — "let  me  nurse 


140  JOANNA    GODDEN 

him.     I  can  come  and  stop  here,  and  nurse  him  day  and 
night." 

"I  am  sure  there  is  no  one  whom  he'd  rather  have  than 
you,  Miss  Godden,"  said  Dr.  Taylor  gallantly,  "but  of  course 
you  are  not  professional,  and  pneumonia  wants  thoroughly 
experienced  nursing — the  nurse  counts  more  than  the  doctor 
in  a  case  like  this." 

"Pneumonia !     Is  that  what's  the  matter  with  him  ?" 
They  had  left  Martin's  room,  and  the  three  of  them  were 
standing  in  the  hall. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  it — only  in  the  right  lung  so  far." 
"But   you   can   stop  it — you   won't   let   him  get   worse. 
Pneumonia !  .  .  ." 

The  word  was  full  of  a  sinister  horror  to  her,  suggesting 
suffocation — agony.  And  Martin's  chest  had  always  been 
weak — the  weak  part  of  his  strong  body.  She  should  have 
thought  of  that  .  .  .  thought  of  it  three  nights  ago  when, 
all  through  her,  he  had  been  soaked  with  the  wind-driven 
rain  .  .  ,  just  like  a  drowned  rat  he  had  looked  when  they 
came  to  Ansdore,  his  cap  dripping,  the  water  running  down 
his  neck.  ,  .  .  No,  no,  it  could  not  be  that — he  couldn't 
have  caught  pneumonia  just  through  getting  wet  that  time 
— she  had  got  wet  a  dunnamany  times  and  not  been  tup- 
pence the  worse  .  .  .  his  lungs  were  not  weak  in  that  way 
— it  was  the  London  fogs  that  had  disagreed  with  them, 
the  doctor  had  said  so,  and  had  sent  him  away  from  town, 
to  the  marsh  and  the  rain.  .  .  .  He  had  been  in  London  for 
the  last  two  days,  and  the  fog  had  got  into  his  poor  chest 
again — that  was  all,  and  now  that  he  was  home  on  the 
marsh,  he  would  soon  be  well — of  course  he  would  soon  be 
well — she  was  a  fool  to  fret.  And  now  she  would  go  up- 
stairs and  sit  with  him  till  the  nurse  came ;  it  was  her  last 
chance  of  doing  those  little  tender,  rough,  intimate  things 
for  him  .  .  .  till  they  were  married — oh,  she  wouldn't  let 
him  fling  his  clothes  about  like  that  when  they  were  mar- 
ried !  Meantime  she  would  go  up,  and  see  that  he  swallowed 
every  drop  of  the  herb  tea — that  was  the  stuff  to  give  any- 


JOANNA   GODDEN  141 

one  who  was  ill  on  the  marsh,  no  matter  what  the  doctor 
said  .  .  .  rheumatism,  bronchitis,  colic,  it  cured  them  all. 


§  22 

Martin  was  very  ill.  The  herb  tea  did  not  cure  him,  non 
did  the  stuff  the  doctor  gave  him.  Nor  did  the  starched, 
crackling  nurse,  who  turned  Joanna  out  of  the  room  and 
exasperatingly  spoke  of  Martin  as  "my  patient." 

Joanna  had  lunch  with  Sir  Harry,  who  in  the  stress  of 
anxiety  was  turning  into  something  very  like  a  father,  and 
afterwards  drove  off  in  her  trap  to  Rye,  having  forgotten 
all  about  the  Honeychild  errand.  She  went  to  the  f  ruiterers^ 
and  ordered  grapes  and  peaches. 

"But  you  won't  get  them  anywhere  now,  Miss  Godden. 
It's  just  between  seasons — in  another  month.  .  .  ." 

"I  must  have  'em  now,"  said  Joanna  truculently,  "I 
don't  care  what  I  pay." 

It  ended  in  the  telephone  at  the  Post  Office  being  put 
into  hysteric  action,  and  a  London  shop  admonished  to 
send  down  peaches  and  grapes  to  Rye  station  by  passenger 
train  that  afternoon. 

The  knowledge  of  Martin's  illness  was  all  over  Walland 
Marsh  by  the  evening.  All  the  marsh  knew  about  the  doctor 
and  the  nurse  and  the  peaches  and  grapes  from  London. 
The  next  morning  they  knew  that  he  was  worse,  and  that 
his  brother  had  been  sent  for — heather  Lawrence  arrived 
on  Saturday  night,  driving  in  the  carrier's  cart  from  Rye 
station.  On  Sunday  morning  people  met  on  their  way  to 
church,  and  shook  their  heads  as  they  told  each  other  the 
latest  news  from  North  Farthing — double  pneumonia,  an 
abscess  on  the  lung.  .  .  .  Nell  Raddish  said  his  face  was 
blue  .  .  .  the  Old  Squire  was  quite  ui)set  .  .  .  the  nurse 
was  like  a  heathen,  raging  at  the  cook.  .  .  .  Joanna  Godden  ? 
— she  sat  all  day  in  Mr.  Martin's  study,  waiting  to  be  sent 
for  upstairs,  but  she'd  only  seen  him  once.  .  .  . 


142  JOANNA   GODDEN 

Then,  when  tongues  at  last  were  quiet  in  church,  just 
before  the  Second  Lesson  Mr,  Pratt  read  out — 

"I  publish  the  banns  of  marriage  between  Martin  Arbuth- 
not  Trevor,  bachelor,  of  this  parish,  and  Joanna  Mary  God- 
den,  spinster,  of  the  parish  of  Pedlinge.  This  is  for  the 
first  time  of  asking.  If  any  of  you  know  any  just  cause 
or  impediment  why  these  persons  should  not  be  joined 
together  in  holy  matrimony,  ye  are  to  declare  it." 

§  23 

Martin  died  early  on  Monday  morning.  Joanna  was  with 
him  at  the  last,  and  to  the  last  she  did  not  believe  that  he 
would  die — because  he  had  given  up  worrying  about  him- 
self, so  she  was  sure  he  must  feel  better.  Three  hours 
before  he  died  he  held  both  her  hands  and  looked  at  her 
once  more  like  a  man  out  of  his  eyes.  .  .  .  "Lovely  Jo," 
he  said. 

She  had  lain  down  in  most  of  her  clothes  as  usual,  in  the 
little  spare  room,  and  between  two  and  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  nurse  had  roused  her. 

"You're  wanted  .  .  .  but  I'm  not  sure  if  he'll  know  you." 

He  didn't.  He  knew  none  of  them — his  mind  seemed  to 
have  gone  away  and  left  his  body  to  fight  its  last  fight  alone. 

"He  doesn't  feel  anything,"  they  said  to  her,  when  Martin 
gasped  and  struggled — "but  don't  stay  if  you'd  rather  not." 

"I'd  rather  stay,"  said  Joanna,  "he  may  know  me.  Mar- 
tin .  .  ."  she  called  to  him,  "Martin — I'm  here — I'm  Jo — " 
but  it  was  like  calling  to  someone  who  is  already  far  away 
down  a  long  road. 

There  was  a  faint,  sweet  smell  of  oil  in  the  room — Father 
Lawrence  had  administered  the  last  rites  of  Holy  Church. 
His  romance  and  Martin's  had  met  at  his  brother's  death- 
bed. .  .  .  "Go  forth,  Christian  soul,  from  this  world,  in  the 
Name  of  God — in  the  name  of  the  Angels  and  Archangels 
— in  the  name  of  the  Patriarchs,  Prophets,  Apostles,  Evan- 
gelists, Martyrs,  Confessors,  Virgins,  and  of  all  the  Saints 


JOANNA    GODDEN  143 

of  God ;  let  thine  habitation  today  be  in  peace  and  thine 
abode  in  Holy  Sion"  .  .  .  "Martin,  it's  only  me,  it's  only 
Jo"  .  .  .  thus  the  two  voices  mingled,  and  he  heard  neither. 
The  cold  morning  lit  up  the  window  square,  and  the 
window  rattled  with  the  breeze  of  Rye  Bay.  Joanna  felt 
someone  take  her  hand  and  lead  her  towards  the  door. 
"He's  all  right  now,"  said  Lawrence's  voice — "it's  over. 

Somebody  was  giving  her  a  glass  of  wine — she  was 
sitting  in  the  dining-room,  staring  unmoved  at  Nell  Rad- 
dish's  guilt  revealed  in  a  breakfast-table  laid  over  night. 
Lawrence  and  Sir  Harry  were  both  with  her,  being  kind 
to  her,  forgetting  their  own  grief  in  trying  to  comfort  her. 
But  Joanna  only  wanted  to  go  home.  Suddenly  she  felt 
lonely  and  scared  in  this  fine  house,  with  its  thick  carpets 
and  mahogany  and  silver — now  that  Martin  was  not  here 
to  befriend  her  in  it.  She  did  not  belong — she  was  an  out- 
sider, and  she  wanted  to  go  away. 

She  asked  for  the  trap,  and  they  tried  to  persuade  her 
to  stay  and  have  some  breakfast,  but  she  repeated  doggedly 
— "I  want  to  go."  Lawrence  went  and  fetched  the  trap 
round,  for  the  men  were  not  about  yet.  The  morning  had 
not  really  come — only  the  cold  twilight,  empty  and  howling 
with  wind,  with  a  great  drifting  sky  of  fading  stars. 

Lawrence  went  with  her  to  the  door,  and  kissed  her — 
"Goodbye,  dear  Jo — Father  or  I  will  come  and  see  you 
soon."  She  was  surprised  at  the  kiss,  for  he  had  never 
kissed  her  before,  though  the  Squire  had  taken  full  advan- 
tage of  their  relationship — she  had  supposed  it  wasn't  right 
for  Jesoots. 

She  did  not  know  what  she  said  to  him — probalily  notliing. 
There  was  a  terrible  silence  in  her  heart.  She  heard  Sniiler's 
hoofs  upon  the  road — clop,  clop,  clop.  But  they  did  not 
break  the  silence  within  .  .  .  oh,  Martin,  Martin,  put  your 
hand  under  my  arm,  against  my  heart — maybe  that'll  stop 
it  aching. 

Thoughts  of  Martin  crowding  upon  her,  filling  the  empty 


144  JOANNA    GODDEN 

heart  with  memories.  .  .  .  Martin  sitting  on  the  tombstone 
outside  Brodnyx  church  on  Christmas  Day,  Martin  holding 
her  in  his  arms  on  the  threshold  of  Ansdore.  .  .  .  Martin 
kissing  her  in  New  Romney  church,  bending  her  back 
against  the  pillar  stained  with  the  old  floods  .  .  .  that 
drive  through  Broomhill — how  he  had  teased  her! — "we'll 
come  here  for  our  honeymoon"  .  .  .  Dunge  Ness,  the  moan- 
ing sea,  the  wind,  her  fear,  his  arms  .  .  .  the  warm  kitchen 
of  the  Britannia,  with  the  light  of  the  wreck-wood  fire,  the 
tea-cups  on  the  table,  "we  shall  want  to  see  our  children." 
.  .  .  No,  no,  you  mustn't  say  that — not  now,  not  now.  .  .  . 
Remember  instead  how  we  quarrelled,  how  he  tried  to  get 
between  me  and  Ansdore,  so  that  I  forgot  Ansdore,  and 
gave  it  up  for  his  sake ;  but  it's  all  I've  got  now.  I  gave  up 
Ansdore  to  Martin,  and  now  I've  lost  Martin  and  got  Ans- 
dore. I've  got  three  hundred  acres  and  four  hundred  sheep 
and  three  hundred  pounds  at  interest  in  Lewes  Old  Bank. 
But  I've  lost  Martin.  I've  done  valiant  for  Ansdore,  bet- 
ter'n  ever  I  hoped — poor  Father  ud  be  proud  of  me.  But 
my  heart's  broken.  I  don't  like  remembering — it  hurts — 
I  must  forget. 

Colour  had  come  into  the  dawn.  The  marsh  was  slowly 
turning  from  a  strange  papery  grey  to  green.  The  sky 
changed  from  white  to  blue,  and  suddenly  became  smeared 
with  ruddy  clouds.  At  once  the  watercourses  lit  up,  streak- 
ing across  the  green  in  fiery  slats — ^the  shaking  boughs  of 
the  willows  became  full  of  fire,  and  at  the  turn  of  the  road 
the  windows  of  Ansdore  shone  as  if  it  were  burning. 

There  it  stood  at  the  road's  bend,  its  roofs  a  fiery  yellow 
with  the  swarming  sea-lichen,  its  solid  walls  flushed  faintly 
pink  in  the  sunrise,  its  windows  squares  of  amber  and  flame. 
It  was  as  a  house  lit  up  and  welcoming.  It  seemed  to  shout 
to  Joanna  as  she  came  to  it  clop,  clop  along  the  road. 

"Come  back — come  home  to  me — I'm  glad  to  see  you 
again.  You  forgot  me  for  five  days,  but  you  won't  forget 
me  any  more — for  I'm  all  that  you've  got  now." 


PART  THREE 
THE   LITTLE    SISTER 


PART  III 
THE   LITTLE   SISTER 


§  1 

For  many  months  Ansdore  was  a  piece  of  wreckage  to 
which  a  drowning  woman  clung.  Joanna's  ship  had  found- 
ered— the  high-castled,  seaworthy  ship  of  her  life — and  she 
drifted  through  the  dark  seas,  clinging  only  to  this  which 
had  once  been  so  splendid  in  the  midst  of  her  decks,  but 
was  now  mere  wreckage,  the  least  thing  saved.  If  she  let 
go  she  would  drown.  So  she  trailed  after  Ansdore,  and 
at  last  it  brought  her  a  kind  of  anchorage,  not  in  her  native 
land,  but  at  least  in  no  unkind  country  of  adoption.  During 
the  last  weeks  of  Martin's  wooing,  she  had  withdrawn  her- 
self a  little  from  the  business  of  the  farm,  into  a  kind  of 
overlordship,  from  which  she  was  far  more  free  to  detach 
herself  than  from  personal  service.  Now  she  went  back 
to  work  with  her  hands — she  did  not  want  free  hours,  either 
for  his  company  or  for  her  own  dreams;  she  rose  early, 
because  she  waked  early  and  must  rise  when  she  waked,  and 
she  went  round  waking  the  girls,  hustling  the  men,  putting 
her  own  hand  to  the  milking  or  the  cooking,  more  sharp- 
tongucd  than  ever,  less  tolerant,  but  more  terribly  alive, 
with  a  kind  of  burning,  consuming  life  that  vexed  all  those 
about  her. 

"She  spicks  short  wud  me,"  said  old  Stuppeny,  "and  I've 
toald  her  as  she  mun  look  around  fur  a  new  head  man. 
This  time  I'm  going." 

147 


148  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"She's  a  scold,"  said  Broadhurst,  "and  reckon  the  young 
chap  saaved  himself  a  tedious  life  by  dying." 

"Reckon  her  heart's  broke,"  said  Mrs.  Tolhurst. 

"Her  temper's  broke,"  said  Milly  Pump. 

They  were  unsympathetic,  because  she  expressed  her 
grief  in  terms  of  fierce  activity  instead  of  in  the  lackadaisical 
ways  of  tradition.  If  Joanna  had  taken  to  her  bed  on  her 
return  from  North  Farthing  House  that  early  time,  and 
had  sent  for  the  doctor,  and  shown  all  the  credited  symp- 
toms of  a  broken  heart,  they  would  have  pitied  her  and 
served  her  and  borne  with  her.  But,  instead,  she  had  come 
back  hustling  and  scolding,  and  they  could  not  see  that  she 
did  so  because  not  merely  her  heart  but  her  whole  self  was 
broken,  and  that  she  was  just  flying  and  rattling  about  like 
a  broken  thing.  So  instead  of  pitying  her,  they  grumbled 
and  threatened  to  leave  her  service — in  fact,  Milly  Pump 
actually  did  so,  and  was  succeeded  by  Mene  Tekel  Fagge, 
the  daughter  of  Bibliolatious  parents  at  Northlade. 

Ansdore  throve  on  its  mistress's  frenzy.  That  Autumn 
Joanna  had  four  hundred  pounds  in  Lewes  Old  Bank,  the 
result  of  her  splendid  markets  and  of  her  new  ploughs, 
which  had  borne  eight  bushels  to  the  acre.  She  had  tri- 
umphed gloriously  over  everyone  who  had  foretold  her 
ruin  through  breaking  up  pasture ;  strong-minded  farmers 
could  scarcely  bear  to  drive  along  that  lap  of  the  Brodnyx 
road  which  ran  through  Joanna's  wheat,  springing  slim  and 
strong  and  heavy-eared  as  from  Lothian  soil — if  there  had 
been  another  way  from  Brodnyx  to  Rye  market  they  would 
have  taken  it ;  indeed  it  was  rumoured  that  on  one  occasion 
Vine  had  gone  by  train  from  Appledore  because  he  couldn't 
abear  the  sight  of  Joanna  Godden's  ploughs. 

This  rumour,  when  it  reached  her,  brought  her  a  faint 
thrill.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  slow  process  of  re-identi- 
fication of  herself  with  her  own  activities,  which  till  then 
had  been  as  some  furious  raging  outside  the  house.  She 
began  to  picture  new  acts  of  discomfiting  adventure,  new 
roads  which  should  be  shut  to  Vine  through  envy.    Ansdore 


JOANNA   GODDEN  149 

was  all  she  had,  so  she  must  make  it  much.  When  she  had 
given  it  and  herself  to  Martin  she  had  had  all  the  marsh 
and  all  the  world  to  plant  with  her  love;  but  since  he  was 
gone  and  had  left  her  gifts  behind  him,  she  had  just  a  few 
acres  to  plant  with  wheat — and  her  harvest  should  be  bread 
alone. 

§2 

But  her  black  months  had  changed  her — not  outwardly 
very  much,  but  leaving  wounds  in  her  heart.  Martin  had 
woken  in  her  too  many  needs  for  her  to  be  able  to  go  back 
quietly  into  the  old  life  of  unfulfilled  content.  He  had 
shown  her  a  vision  of  herself  as  complete  woman,  mother 
and  wife,  of  a  Joanna  Godden  bigger  than  Ansdore.  She 
could  no  longer  be  the  Joanna  Godden  whose  highest  am- 
bition was  to  be  admitted  member  of  the  Farmers'  Qub. 
He  had  also  woken  in  her  certain  simple  cravings — for  a 
man's  strong  arm  round  her  and  his  shoulder  under  her 
cheek.  She  had  now  to  make  the  humiliating  discovery  that 
the  husk  of  such  a  need  can  remain  after  the  creating  spirit 
has  left  it.  In  the  course  of  the  next  year,  she  had  one  or 
two  small,  rather  undignified  flirtations  with  neighbouring 
farmers — there  was  young  Gain  over  at  Botolph's  Bridge, 
and  Ernest  Noakes  of  Bclgar.  They  did  not  last  long,  and 
she  finally  abandoned  both  in  disgust,  but  a  side  of  her, 
always  active  unconsciously,  was  now  disturbingly  awake, 
requiring  more  concrete  satisfactions  than  the  veiled,  self- 
deceiving  episode  of  Socknersh. 

She  was  ashamed  of  this.  And  it  made  her  withdraw 
from  comforts  she  might  have  had.  She  never  went  to 
North  Farthing  House,  where  she  could  have  talked  about 
Martin  with  the  one  person  who — as  it  happened — would 
have  understood  her  treacheries.  Lawrence  came  to  see 
her  once  at  the  end  of  September,  but  she  was  grufif  and 
silent.  She  recoiled  from  his  efforts  to  break  the  barriers 
between  life  and  death  ;  he  wanted  her  to  give  ATartin  her 
thoughts  and  her  prayers  just  as  if  he  was  alive,  but  she 


150  JOANNA   GODDEN 

"didn't  hold  with  praying  for  the  dead" — the  Lion  and  the 
Unicorn  would  certainly  disapprove  of  such  an  act ;  and 
Martin  was  now  robed  in  white,  with  a  crown  on  his  head 
and  a  harp  in  his  hand  and  a  new  song  in  his  mouth — he 
had  no  need  for  the  prayers  of  Joanna  Godden's  unfaithful 
lips.  As  for  her  thoughts,  by  the  same  token  she  could  not 
think  of  him  as  he  was  now ;  that  radiant  being  in  glistening 
white  was  beyond  the  soft  approaches  of  imagination — 
robed  and  crowned,  he  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  remem- 
ber himself  in  a  tweed  suit  and  muddy  boots  kissing  a 
flushed  and  hot  Joanna  on  the  lonely  innings  by  Beggar's 
Bush.  No,  Martin  was  gone — gone  beyond  thought  and 
prayer — gone  to  sing  hymns  for  ever  and  ever — he  who 
could  never  abide  them  on  earth — gone  to  forget  Joanna  in 
the  company  of  angels — pictured  uncomfortably  by  her  as 
females,  who  would  be  sure  to  tell  him  that  she  had  let 
Thomas  Gain  kiss  her  in  the  barn  over  at  Botolph's  Bridge. 
She  could  not  think  of  him  as  he  was  now,  remote  and 
white,  and  she  could  bear  still  less  to  think  of  him  as  he 
had  been  once,  warm  and  loving,  with  his  caressing  hands 
and  untidy  hair,  with  his  flushed  check  pressed  against  hers, 
and  the  good  smell  of  his  clothes — with  his  living  mouth 
closing  slowly  down  on  hers  .  .  .  no,  earth  was  even  sharper 
than  heaven.  All  she  had  of  him  in  which  her  memory  and 
her  love  could  find  rest  were  those  few  common  things  they 
keep  to  remember  their  dead  by  on  the  marsh — a  memorial 
card,  thickly  edged  with  black,  which  she  had  had  printed 
at  her  own  expense,  since  apparently  such  things  were  no 
part  of  the  mourning  of  North  Farthing  House ;  his  photo- 
graph in  a  black  frame ;  his  grave  in  Brodnyx  churchyard, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  black,  three-hooded  tower,  and  not 
very  far  from  the  altar-tomb  on  which  he  had  sat  and  waited 
for  her  that  Christmas  morning. 

§  3 
In  the  fall  of  the  next  year,  she  found  that  once  again 
she  had  something  to  engross  her  outside  Ansdore.     Ellen 


JOANNA    GODDEN  151 

was  to  leave  school  thai  Christmas.  The  little  sister  was 
now  seventeen,  and  endowed  with  all  the  grace  and  learning 
that  forty  pounds  a  term  can  buy.  During  the  last  year, 
she  and  Joanna  had  seen  comparatively  little  of  each  other. 
She  had  received  one  or  two  invitations  from  her  school 
friends  to  spend  her  holidays  with  them — a  fine  testimonial, 
thought  Joanna,  to  her  manners  and  accomplishments — and 
her  sister  had  been  only  too  glad  that  she  should  go,  that 
she  should  be  put  out  of  the  shadow  of  a  grief  which  had 
grown  too  black  even  for  her  sentimental  school-girl  sym- 
pathy, so  gushing  and  caressing  in  the  first  weeks  of  her 
poor  Joanna's  mourning. 

But  things  were  different  now — Martin's  memory  was 
laid.  She  told  herself  that  it  was  because  she  was  too  busy 
that  she  had  not  gone  as  usual  to  the  Harvest  Festival  at 
New  Romncy,  to  sing  hymns  beside  the  pillar  marked  with 
the  old  floods.  She  was  beginning  to  forget.  She  could 
think  and  she  could  love.  She  longed  to  have  Ellen  back 
again,  to  love  and  spoil  and  chasten.  She  was  glad  that 
she  was  leaving  school,  and  would  make  no  fugitive  visit 
to  Ansdorc.  Immediately  her  mind  leapt  to  pre])arations — • 
her  sister  was  too  big  to  sleep  any  more  in  tlic  little  bed 
at  the  foot  of  her  own,  she  must  have  a  new  bed  .  .  .  and 
suddenly  Joanna  thought  of  a  new  room,  a  project  which 
would  mop  up  all  her  overflowing  energies  for  the  next 
month. 

It  should  be  a  surprise  for  Ellen.  She  sent  for  painters 
and  paper-hangers,  and  chose  a  wonderful  new  wall-paper 
of  climbing  chrysanthemums,  rose  and  blue  in  colour  and 
tied  with  large  bows  of  goM  ribbon — real,  shining  gold. 
The  paint  she  chose  was  a  delicate  fawn,  ])icked  out  with 
rose  and  blue.  She  bought  yarfls  of  flowered  cretonne  for 
the  bed  and  window  curtains,  and  iiad  the  mahogany  furni- 
ture moved  in  from  the  spare  bedroom.  The  carpet  she 
bought  brand  new — it  was  a  sea  of  stormy  crimson,  with 
fawn-coloured  islands  riotcfl  over  with  roses  and  blue  tulips. 
Joanna  had  never  enjoyed  herself  so  much  since  she  lost 


152  JOANNA    GODDEN 

Martin,  as  she  did  now,  choosing  all  the  rich  colours,  and 
splendid  solid  furniture.  The  room  cost  her  nearly  forty 
pounds,  for  she  had  to  buy  new  furniture  for  the  spare 
bedroom,  having  given  Ellen  the  mahogany. 

As  a  final  touch,  she  hung  the  walls  with  pictures.  There 
was  a  large  photograph  of  Ventnor  Church,  Isle  of  Wight, 
and  another  of  Furness  Abbey  in  an  Oxford  frame ;  there 
was  "Don't  Touch"  and  "Mother's  Boy"  from  Pears'  Christ- 
mas Annual,  and  two  texts,  properly  expounded  with  robins. 
To  crown  all,  there  was  her  father's  certificate  of  enrolment 
in  the  Ancient  Order  of  Bufifaloes,  sacrificed  from  her  own 
room,  and  hung  proudly  in  the  place  of  honour  over  Ellen's 
bed. 

Her  sister  came  at  Thomas-tide,  and  Joanna  drove  in  to 
meet  her  at  Rye.  Brodnyx  had  now  a  station  of  its  own 
on  the  new  light  railway  from  Appledore  to  Lydd,  but 
Joanna  still  went  to  Rye.  She  loved  the  spanking  miles, 
the  hard  white  lick  of  road  that  fiew  under  her  wheels  as 
she  drove  through  Pedlinge,  and  then,  swinging  round  the 
throws,  flung  out  on  the  Straight  Mile.  She  trotted  under 
the  Land  Gate,  feeling  pleasantly  that  all  the  town  was 
watching  her  from  shop  and  street.  Her  old  love  of  swag- 
ger had  come  back,  with  perhaps  a  slight  touch  of  defiance. 

At  the  station,  she  had  to  wake  old  Stuppeny  out  of  his 
slumber  on  the  back  seat,  and  put  him  in  his  proper  place 
at  Smiler's  head,  while  she  went  on  the  platform.  The 
train  was  just  due,  and  she  had  not  passed  many  remarks 
with  the  ticket-collector — a  comely  young  fellow  whom  she 
liked  for  his  build  and  the  sauciness  of  his  tongue — before 
it  arrived.  As  it  steamed  in,  her  heart  began  to  beat  anx- 
iously— she  bit  her  lip,  and  actually  looked  nervous.  Ellen 
was  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  could  make  her  feel 
shy  and  ill  at  ease,  and  Ellen  had  only  lately  acquired  this 
power;  but  there  had  been  a  constraint  about  their  meetings 


JOANNA    GODDEN  153 

for  the  last  year.  During  the  last  year,  Ellen  had  become 
terribly  good-mannered  and  grown  up,  and  somehow  that 
first  glimpse  of  the  elegant  maiden  whom  her  toil  and  sacri- 
fice had  created  out  of  little  Ellen  Godden  of  Ansdore, 
never  failed  to  give  Joanna  a  queer  sense  of  awkwardness 
and  inferiority. 

Today  Ellen  was  more  impressive,  more  "different"  than 
ever.  She  had  been  allowed  to  buy  new  clothes  before  leav- 
ing Folkestone,  and  her  long  blue  coat  and  neat  little  hat 
made  Joanna,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  feel  tawdry  and 
savage  in  her  fur  and  feathers.  Her  sister  stepped  down 
from  her  third-class  carriage  as  a  queen  from  her  throne, 
beckoned  to  Rye's  one  porter,  and  without  a  word  pointed 
back  into  the  compartment,  from  which  he  removed  a  hand- 
bag; whereat  she  graciously  gave  him  twopence  and  pro- 
ceeded to  greet  Joanna. 

"Dear  Jo,"  she  murmured,  filling  her  embrace  with  a  soft 
perfume  of  hair,  which  somehow  stifled  the  "Hello,  duckie" 
on  the  other's  tongue. 

Joanna  found  herself  turning  to  Rye's  one  porter  with 
enquiries  after  his  wife  and  little  boy,  doing  her  best  to 
take  the  chill  off  the  proceedings.  She  wished  that  Ellen 
wouldn't  give  herself  these  airs.  It  is  true  that  they  always 
wore  off,  as  Ansdore  reasserted  itself  in  old  clothes  and 
squabbles,  but  Joanna  resented  her  first  impressions. 

However,  her  sister  thawerl  a  little  on  the  drive  home — 
she  was  curious  about  the  affairs  of  Brodnyx  and  Pedlinge, 
for  her  time  in  two  worlds  was  at  an  end,  and  Ansclore  was 
henceforth  to  give  her  its  horizons. 

"Will  there  be  any  parties  at  Christmas?"  she  asked. 

"Sure  to  be,"  said  Joanna,  "I'll  be  giving  one  myself,  and 
Mrs.  Vine  was  telling  me  only  yesterday  as  she's  a  mind 
to  have  some  neighbours  in  for  whist." 

"Won't  there  be  any  dancing?" 

"Oh,  it's  that  what  you're  after,  is  it?"  said  Joanna 
proudly. 

"Mabel  and   Pauline  arc  going  to  heaps  of   dances   this 


154  JOANNA   GODDEN 

Christmas — and  Alyra  West  is  coming  out.  Mayn't  I  come 
out,  Joanna?" 

"Come  out  o'  what,  dearie  ?" 

"Oh,  you  know — put  up  my  hair  and  go  to  balls." 

"You  can  put  your  hair  up  any  day  you  please — I  put 
mine  up  at  fifteen,  and  you're  turned  seventeen  now.  As 
for  balls.  .  .  ." 

She  broke  off,  a  little  at  a  loss  as  to  how  she  was  to 
supply  this  deficiency.  It  would  scarcely  be  possible  for 
her  to  break  into  the  enclosures  of  Dungemarsh  Court — 
especially  since  she  had  allowed  herself  to  drop  away  from 
North  Farthing  House  .  .  .  she  had  been  a  fool  to  do  that 
— Sir  Harry  might  have  helped  her  now.  But  then  .  .  . 
her  lips  tightened.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  he  would  not  be  at  home 
for  Christmas — since  Martin's  death  he  had  sublet  the  farm 
and  was  a  good  deal  away ;  people  said  he  had  "come  into" 
some  money,  left  him  by  a  former  mistress,  who  had  died 
more  grateful  than  he  deserved. 

"I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  you,  duck,"  said  Joanna,  "you 
shall  have  your  bit  of  dancing — and  anyways  I've  got  a 
fine,  big  surprise  for  you  when  we're  home." 

"What  sort  of  a  surprise?" 

"That's  telling." 

Ellen,  in  spite  of  her  dignity,  was  child  enough  to  be 
intensely  excited  at  the  idea  of  a  secret,  and  the  rest  of  the 
drive  was  spent  in  baffled  question  and  provoking  answer. 

"I  believe  it's  something  for  me  to  wear,"  she  said  finally, 
as  they  climbed  out  of  the  trap  at  the  front  door — "a  ring, 
Joanna.  .  .  ,  I've  always  wanted  a  ring." 

"It's  better  than  a  ring,"  said  Joanna,  "leastways  it's 
bigger,"  and  she  laughed  to  herself. 

She  led  th^  way  upstairs,  while  Mrs.  Tolhurst  and  old 
Stuppeny  waltzed  recriminatingly  with  Ellen's  box. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?"  asked  her  sister,  pausing 
with  her  hand  on  the  door-knob  of  Joanna's  bedroom. 

"Never  you  mind — come  on." 

Would  Mene  Tekel,  she  wondered,  have  remembered  to 


JOANNA   GODDEN  155^ 

set  the  lamps,  so  that  the  room  should  not  depend  on  the 
faint  gutter  lamps  of  sunset  to  display  its  glories?  She 
opened  the  door,  and  was  reassured — a  fury  of  light  and 
colour  leapt  out — rose,  blue,  green,  buff,  and  the  port-wine 
red  of  Mahogany.  The  pink  curtains  were  drawn,  but  there 
was  no  fire  in  the  grate — for  fires  in  bedrooms  were  un- 
known at  Ansdorc — but  a  Christmas-like  effect  was  given 
by  sprigs  of  holly  stuck  in  the  picture-frames,  and  a  string 
of  paper-flowers  hung  from  the  bed-tester  to  the  top  of  the 
big  woolly  bcU-rope  by  the  mantelpiece.  Joanna  heard  her 
sister  gasp. 

"It's  yours,  Ellen — your  new  room.  I've  given  it  to  you 
— all  to  yourself.  There's  the  spare  mahogany  furniture, 
and  the  best  pictures,  and  poor  Father's  Buffalo  Certificate." 

The  triumj)h  of  her  own  achievement  melted  away  the 
last  of  her  uneasiness — she  seized  Ellen  in  her  arms  and 
kissed  her,  knocking  her  hat  over  one  ear. 

"See,  you've  got  new  curtains — eighteen  pence  a  yard 
.  .  .  and  that's  Mother's  text — 'Inasmuch'  .  .  .  and  I've 
bought  a  new  soap-dish  at  Gasson's — it  doesn't  quite  go 
with  the  basin,  but  they've  both  got  roses  on  'em  .  .  .  and 
you  won't  mind  there  being  a  few  of  my  gowns  in  the  ward- 
robe— only  the  skirts — I've  got  room  for  the  bodices  in  my 
drawers  .  .  .  that's  the  basket  armchair  out  of  the  dining- 
room,  with  a  new  cover  that  Mcne  Tekel  fixed  for  it  .  .  . 
the  clock's  out  of  the  spare  room — it  don't  go,  but  it  looks 
fine  on  the  mantel])iece.  .  .  .  Say,  duckic,  are  you  pleased? 
— are  you  pleased  with  your  old  Jo?" 

"Oh,  Joanna  .  .  .  thank  you,"  said  Ellen, 

"Well,  I'll  have  to  be  leaving  you  now — that  gal's  got  a 
rabbit  pie  in  the  oven  for  our  tea,  anrl  I  must  go  and  have 
a  look  at  her  crust.  You  unpack  and  clean  yourself — and 
be  careful  not  to  spoil  anything." 

§  5 
Supper  that  night  was  rather  a  quiet  meal.     Something 
about  Ellen  drove  Joanna  back  into  her  ohl  sense  of  estrange- 


156  JOANNA    GODDEN 

ment.  Her  sister  made  her  think  of  a  Hly  on  a  thundery 
day.  She  wore  a  clinging  dress  of  dull  green  stuff,  which 
sheathed  her  delicate  figure  like  a  lily  bract — her  throat  rose 
out  of  it  like  a  lily  stalk,  and  her  face,  with  its  small  fea- 
tures and  soft  skin,  was  the  face  of  a  white  flower.  About 
her  clung  a  dim  atmosphere  of  the  languid  and  exotic,  like 
the  lily's  scent  which  is  so  unlike  the  lily. 

"Ellen,"  broke  out  Joanna,  with  a  glance  down  at  her 
own  high,  tight  bosom,  "don't  you  ever  wear  stays  ?" 

"No — Miss  Collins  and  the  gym  mistress  both  say  it's 
unhealthy." 

"Unhealthy !  And  don't  they  ever  wear  none  them- 
selves ?" 

"Never,  They  look  much  better  without — besides,  small 
waists  are  going  out  of  fashion." 

"But  .  .  .  Ellen  ...  it  ain't  seemly — to  show  the  natural 
shape  of  your  body  as  you're  doing." 

"I've  been  told  my  figure's  a  very  good  one." 

"And  whoever  dared  make  such  a  remark  to  you?" 
'It  was  a  compliment." 

"I  don't  call  it  any  compliment  to  say  such  things  to  a 
young  gal.  Besides,  what  right  have  you  to  go  showing 
what  you  was  meant  to  hide?" 

"I'm  not  showing  anything  I  was  meant  to  hide.  My 
figure  isn't  nearly  so  pronounced  as  yours — if  I  had  your 
figure,  I  couldn't  wear  this  sort  of  frock." 

"My  figure  is  as  God  made  it" — which  it  certainly  was 
not — "and  I  was  brought  up  to  be  the  shape  of  a  woman, 
in  proper  stays,  and  not  the  shape  of  a  heathen  statue.  I'd 
be  ashamed  for  any  of  the  folk  round  here  to  see  you  like 
that — and  if  Arthur  Alee,  or  any  other  man,  came  in,  I'd 
either  have  to  send  you  out  or  wrap  the  table-cover  round 
you." 

Ellen  took  refuge  in  a  haughty  silence,  and  Joanna  began 
to  feel  uneasy  and  depressed.  She  thought  that  Ellen  was 
"fast,"  Was  this  what  she  had  learned  at  school — to  flout 
the  standards  of  her  home? 


JOANNA    GODDEN  157 

§  6 

The  next  morning  Joanna  overslept  herself,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  restless  hour  during  the  first  part  of  the  night. 
As  a  result,  it  had  struck  half  past  seven  before  she  went 
into  her  sister's  room.  She  was  not  the  kind  of  person  who 
knocks  at  doors,  and  burst  in  to  find  Ellen,  inadequately 
clothed  in  funny  little  garments,  doing  something  very 
busily  inside  the  cupboard. 

"PIullo,  duckie!  And  how  did  you  sleep  in  your  lovely 
bed?" 

She  was  once  more  aglow  with  the  vitality  and  triumph 
of  her  own  being,  but  the  next  moment  she  experienced  a 
vague  sense  of  chill — something  was  the  matter  with  the 
room,  something  had  happened  to  it.  It  had  lost  its  sense 
of  cheerful  riot,  and  wore  a  chastened,  hang-dog  air.  In  a 
si)asm  of  consternation  Joanna  realised  that  Ellen  had  been 
tampering  with  it. 

"What  have  you  done? — Where's  my  pictures? — Where've 
you  put  the  winder  curtains?"  she  cried  at  last. 

Ellen  stiffened  herself  and  tried  not  to  look  guilty. 

"I'm  just  trying  to  find  room  for  my  own  things." 

Joanna  stared  about  her. 

"Where's  Father's  Buflfalo  Certificate?" 

"I've  put  it  in  the  cupboard." 

"In  the  cupboard! — heather's  .  .  .  and  I'm  blessed  if  you 
haven't  taken  down  the  curtains." 

"They  clash  with  the  carpet — it  quite  hurts  me  to  look 
at  them.  Really,  Joanna,  if  this  is  my  room,  you  oughtn't 
to  mind  what  I  do  in  it." 

"Your  room,  indeed ! — You've  got  some  sass ! — And  I 
spending  morc'n  forty  j)Ounfl  fixing  it  up  for  you.  I've 
given  you  new  wall  paper  and  new  carpet  and  new  curtains 
and  all  the  best  pictures,  and  took  an  unaccountable  lot  of 
trouble,  anrl  now  you  go  and  mess  it  up." 

"I  haven't  messed  it  up.  On  the  contrary" — Ellen's 
vexation   was  breaking  through   her  sense   of   guilt — "I'm 


158  JOANNA    GODDEN 

doing  the  best  I  can  to  make  it  look  decent.  Since  you  say 
you've  done  it  specially  for  me  and  spent  all  that  money 
on  it,  I  think  at  least  you  might  have  consulted  my  taste 
a  little." 

"And  -whcit  is  your  taste,  Ma'am?" 

"A  bit  quieter  than  yours,"  said  Ellen  saucily.  "There 
are  about  six  different  shades  of  red  and  pink  in  this  room." 

"And  what  shades  would  you  have  chosen,  may  1  be  so 
bold  as  to  ask?"  Joanna's  voice  dragged  ominously  with 
patience — "the  same  shade  as  your  last  night's  gownd, 
which  is  the  colour  of  the  mould  on  jam?  I'll  have  the 
colours  I  like  in  my  own  house — I'm  sick  of  your  dentical, 
die-away  notions.  You  come  home  from  school,  thinking 
you  know  everything,  when  all  you've  learned  is  to  despise 
my  best  pictures,  and  say  my  curtains  clash  with  the  carpet, 
when  I  chose  'em  for  a  nice  match.  I  tell  you  what.  Ma'am 
— you  can  justabout  put  them  curtains  back,  and  them 
pictures,  and  that  Certificate  of  poor  Father's  that  you're 
so  ashamed  of." 

"I  want  to  put  my  own  pictures  up,"  said  Ellen  dog- 
gedly. "If  I've  got  to  live  with  your  carpet  and  wall- 
paper, I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  have  my  own  pictures." 

Joanna  swept  her  eye  contemptuously  over  "The  Vigil," 
*'Sir  Galahad,"  "The  Blessed  Damozel,"  and  one  or  two 
other  schoolgirl  favourites  that  were  lying  on  the  bed. 

"You  can  stick  those  up  as  well — there  ain't  such  a  lot." 

"But  can't  you  see,  Joanna,  that  there  are  too  many 
pictures  on  the  wall  already?  It's  simply  crowded  with 
them.  Really,  you're  an  obstinate  old  beast,"  and  Ellen 
began  to  cry. 

Joanna  fought  back  in  herself  certain  symptoms  of  re- 
lenting. She  could  not  bear  to  see  Ellen  cry,  but  on  the 
other  hand  she  had  "fixed  up"  this  room  for  Ellen,  she 
had  had  it  furnished  and  decorated  for  her,  and  now  Ellen 
must  and  should  appreciate  it — she  should  not  be  allowed 
to  disguise  and  bowdlerise  it  to  suit  the  unwelcome  tastes 
she.   had  acquired  at  school.     The  sight  of  her   father's 


JOANNA    GODDEN  159 

Buffalo  Certificate,  lying  face  downwards  on  the  cupboard 
floor,  gave  strength  to  her  flagging  purpose. 

"You  pick  that  up  and  hang  it  in  its  proper  place." 

"I  won't." 

"You  will." 

"I  won't — why  should  I  have  that  hideous  thing  over  my 
bed?" 

"Because  it  was  your  father's  and  you  should  ought  to 
be  proud  of  it." 

"It's  some  low  drinking  society  he  belonged  to,  and  I'm 
not  proud — I'm  ashamed." 

Joanna  boxed  her  ears. 

"You  don't  deserve  to  be  his  daughter,  Ellen  Godden, 
speaking  so.  It's  you  that's  bringing  us  all  to  shame — ^ 
thank  goodness  you've  left  school,  where  you  learned  all 
that  tedious,  proud  nonsense.  You  hang  those  pictures  up 
again,  and  those  curtains,  and  you'll  keep  this  room  just 
what  I've  made  it  for  you." 

Ellen  was  weeping  bitterly  now,  but  her  sacrilege  had 
hardened  Joanna's  heart.  She  did  not  leave  the  room  till 
the  deposed  dynasty  of  curtains  and  pictures  was  restored, 
with  Poor  Father's  certificate  once  more  in  its  place  of 
honour.     Then  she  marched  out. 

§7 

The  days  till  Christmas  were  full  of  strain.  Joanna  had 
won  her  victory,  but  she  did  not  find  it  a  satisfying  one. 
Ellen's  position  in  the  Ansdore  household  was  that  of  a 
sulky  rebel — resentful,  plaintive,  a  nurse  of  hard  memories 
— too  close  to  be  ignored,  too  hostile  to  be  trusted. 

The  tyrant  groaned  unrk-r  the  heel  of  her  victim.  She 
was  used  to  quarrels,  but  this  was  her  first  experience  of 
a  prolonged  estrangement.  It  had  been  all  very  well  to- 
box  Ellen's  ears  as  a  child,  and  have  her  shins  kicked  in 
return,  and  then  an  hour  or  two  later  be  nursing  her  on 
her  lap  to  the  tune  of  "'ITiere  was  an  Old  Woman,"  or 


160  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Little  Boy  Blue"  .  .  .  But  this  dragged-out  antagonism 
wore  down  her  spirits  into  a  long  sadness — it  was  the 
wrong  start  for  that  happy  home  she  had  planned,  in  which 
Ellen,  the  little  sister,  was  to  absorb  that  overflowing  love 
which  had  once  been  Martin's,  but  which  his  memory  could 
not  hold  in  all  its  power. 

It  seemed  as  if  she  would  be  forced  to  acknowledge 
Ellen's  education  as  another  of  her  failures.  She  had  sent 
her  to  school  to  be  made  a  lady  of,  but  the  finished  article 
was  nearly  as  disappointing  as  the  cross-bred  lambs  of 
Socknersh's  unlucky  day.  If  Ellen  had  wanted  to  lie  abed 
of  a  morning,  never  to  do  a  hand's  turn  of  work,  or  had 
demanded  a  table  napkin  at  all  her  meals,  Joanna  would 
have  humoured  her  and  bragged  about  her.  But,  on  the 
contrary,  her  sister  had  learned  habits  of  early  rising  at 
school,  and  if  left  to  herself  would  have  been  busy  all  day 
with  piano  or  pencil  or  needle  of  the  finer  sort.  Also  she 
found  more  fault  with  the  beauties  of  Ansdore's  best  par- 
lour than  the  rigors  of  its  kitchen ;  there  lay  the  sting — 
her  revolt  was  not  against  the  toils  and  austerities  of  the 
farm's  life,  but  against  its  glories  and  comelinesses.  She 
despised  Ansdore  for  its  very  splendours,  just  as  she  de- 
spised her  sister's  best  clothes  more  than  her  old  ones. 

By  Christmas  Day  things  had  righted  themselves  a  little, 
Ellen  was  too  young  to  sulk  more  than  a  day  or  two,  and 
she  began  to  forget  her  grievances  in  the  excitement  of  the 
festival.  There  was  the  usual  communal  mid-day  dinner, 
with  Arthur  Alee  back  in  his  old  place  at  Joanna's  right 
hand.  Alee  had  behaved  like  a  gentleman,  and  refused  to 
take  back  the  silver  tea-set,  his  premature  wedding-gift. 
Then  in  the  evening,  Joanna  gave  a  party,  at  which  young 
Vines  and  Southlands  and  Furneses  offered  their  sheepish 
admiration  to  her  sister  Ellen.  Of  course,  everyone  was 
agreed  that  Ellen  Godden  gave  herself  lamentable  airs,  but 
she  appealed  to  her  neighbours'  curiosity  through  her  queer, 
languid  ways,  and  the  young  men  found  her  undeniably 
beautiful — she   had  a  thick,   creamy  skin,  into  which   her 


JOANNA    GODDEN  161 

childhood's  roses  sometimes  came  as  a  dim  flush,  and  the 
younger  generation  of  the  Three  Marshes  was  inclined  to 
revolt  from  the  standards  of   its  fathers. 

So  young  Stacey  Vine  kissed  her  daringly  under  the 
mistletoe  at  the  passage  bend,  and  was  rewarded  with  a 
gasp  of  sweet  scent,  which  made  him  talk  a  lot  at  the 
W'oolpack.  While  Tom  Southland,  a  man  of  few  words, 
went  home  and  closed  with  his  father's  ofter  of  a  partner- 
ship in  his  firm,  which  hitherto  he  had  thought  of  setting 
aside  in  favour  of  an  escape  to  Australia.  Ellen  wa« 
pleased  at  the  time,  but  a  night's  thought  made  her  scornful. 

"Don't  you  know  any  really  nice  people?"  she  asked 
Joanna.  "Why  did  you  send  me  to  school  with  gentlemen's 
daughters  if  you  just  meant  me  to  mix  with  common  people 
when  I  came  out  ?" 

"You  can  mix  with  any  gentlefolk  you  can  find  to  mix 
with.  I  myself  have  been  engaged  to  marry  a  gentleman's 
son,  and  his  father  would  have  come  to  my  party  if  he 
hadn't  been  away  for  Christmas." 

She  felt  angry  and  sore  with  Ellen,  but  she  was  bound 
to  admit  that  her  grievance  had  a  certain  justification. 
After  all,  she  had  always  meant  her  to  be  a  lady,  and  now, 
she  supposed,  she  was  merely  behaving  like  one.  She  cast 
about  her  for  means  of  introducing  her  sister  into  the 
spheres  she  coveted  ...  if  only  Sir  Harry  Trevor  would 
come  home!  But  she  gathered  there  was  little  prospect  of 
that  for  some  time.  Then  she  thought  of  Mr.  Pratt,  the 
Rector.  ...  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  ever  con- 
sidered him  as  a  social  asset — his  poverty,  his  inefficiency 
and  self -depreciation  had  quite  outweighed  his  gentility  in 
her  ideas ;  he  had  existed  only  as  the  Voice  of  the  Church 
on  Walland  Marsh,  and  the  sj>asmodic  respect  she  paid  him 
was  for  his  office  alone.  V>\\t  now  she  began  to  remember 
that  he  was  an  educated  man  and  a  gentleman,  who  might 
supply  the  want  in  her  sister's  life  without  in  any  way 
encouraging  those  more  undesirable  "notions"  she  had 
picked  up  at  school. 


162  JOANNA    GODDEN 

Accordingly,  Mr.  Pratt,  hitherto  neglected,  was  invited 
to  Ansdore  with  a  frequency  and  enthusiasm  that  com- 
pletely turned  his  head.  He  spoiled  the  whole  scheme  by 
misinterpreting  its  motive,  and  after  about  the  ninth  tea- 
party,  became  buoyed  with  insane  and  presumptuous  hopes, 
and  proposed  to  Joanna.  She  was  overwhelmed,  and  did 
not  scruple  to  overwhelm  him  with  anger  and  consternation. 
It  was  not  that  she  did  not  consider  the  Rectory  a  fit  match 
for  Ansdore,  even  with  only  two  hundred  a  year  attached 
to  it,  but  she  was  furious  that  Mr.  Pratt  should  think  it 
possible  that  she  could  fancy  him  as  a  man — "a  little  rabbity 
chap  like  him,  turned  fifty,  and  scarce  a  hair  on  him.  If 
he  wants  another  wife  at  his  age,  he  should  get  an  old 
maid  like  Miss  Gasson  or  a  hopeful  widder  like  Mrs.  Woods 
— not  a  woman  who's  had  real  men  to  love  her,  and  ud 
never  look  at  anything  but  a  real,  stout  feller." 

However,  she  confided  the  proposal  to  Ellen,  for  she 
wanted  her  sister  to  know  that  she  had  had  an  offer  from 
a  clergyman,  and  also  that  she  was  still  considered  desirable 
— for  once  or  twice  Ellen  had  thrown  out  troubling  hints 
that  she  thought  her  sister  middle-aged.  Of  course  she 
was  turned  thirty  now,  and  hard  weather  and  other  hard 
things  had  made  her  inclined  to  look  older,  by  reddening 
and  lining  her  face.  But  she  had  splendid  eyes,  hair  and 
teeth,  and  neither  the  grace  nor  the  energy  of  youth  had 
left  her  body,  which  had  coarsened  into  something  rather 
magnificent,  tall  and  strong,  plump  without  stoutness,  clean- 
limbed without  angularity. 

She  could  certainly  now  have  had  her  pick  among  the 
unmarried  farmers — which  could  not  have  been  said  when 
she  first  set  up  her  mastership  at  Ansdore.  Since  those 
times  men  had  learned  to  tolerate  her  swaggering  ways, 
also  her  love  affair  with  Martin  had  made  her  more  normal, 
more  of  a  soft,  accessible  woman.  Arthur  Alee  was  no 
longer  the  only  suitor  at  Ansdore — it  was  well  known  that 
Sam  Turner,  who  had  lately  moved  from  inland  to  North- 
lade,  was  wanting  to  have  her,  and  Hugh  Vennal  would 


JOANNA   GODDEN  163 

have  been  glad  to  bring  her  as  his  second  wife  to  Beggar's 
Bush.  Joanna  was  proud  of  these  attachments,  and  saw 
to  it  that  they  were  not  obscure — also,  one  or  two  of  the 
men,  particularly  Vennal,  she  liked  for  themselves,  for 
their  vitality  and  "set-upness" ;  but  she  shied  away  from 
the  prospect  of  marriage.  Martin  had  shown  her  all  that 
it  meant  in  the  way  of  renunciation,  and  she  felt  that  she 
could  make  its  sacrifices  for  no  one  less  than  Martin. 
Also,  the  frustration  of  her  hopes  and  the  inadequacy  of 
her  memories  had  produced  in  her  a  queer  antipathy  to 
marriage — a  starting  aside.  Her  single  state  began  to  have 
for  her  a  certain  worth  in  itself,  a  respectable  rigour  like 
a  pair  of  stays.  For  a  year  or  so  after  Martin's  death, 
she  had  maintained  her  solace  of  secret  kisses,  but  in  time 
she  had  come  to  withdraw  even  from  these,  and  by  now 
the  full  force  of  her  vitality  was  pouring  itself  into  her 
life  at  Ansdore,  its  ambitions  and  business,  her  love  for 
Ellen,  and  her  own  pride. 


§8 

Ellen  secretly  despised  Joanna's  suitors,  just  as  she  se- 
cretly despised  all  Joanna's  best  and  most  splendid  things. 
They  were  a  dull  lot,  driving  her  sister  home  on  market-day, 
or  sitting  for  hours  in  the  parlour  with  Arthur  Alce's 
mother's  silver  tea-set.  It  was  always  "Good  evening,  Miss 
Goddcn,"  "Good  evening,  Mr.  Turner" — "Fine  weather  for 
roots" — "A  bit  dry  for  the  grazing."  It  was  not  thus  that 
Ellen  Goddcn  understood  love.  Besides,  tliese  men  looked 
oafs,  in  spite  of  the  fine  build  of  some  of  them — they  were 
not  so  bad  in  their  working  clothes,  with  their  leggings  and 
velveteen  breeches,  but  in  their  Sunday  best,  which  they 
always  wore  on  these  occasions,  they  looked  clumsy  and 
ridiculous,  their  broad  black  coats  in  the  cut  of  yester-year 
and  smelling  of  camphor,  their  high-winged  collars  scraping 
and  reddening  their  necks  ...  in  their  presence  Ellen  was 


164  JOANNA    GODDEN 

rather  sidling  and  sweet,  but  away  from  them  in  the  riotous 
privacy  of  her  new  bedroom,  she  laughed  to  herself  and 
jeered. 

She  had  admirers  of  her  own,  but  she  soon  grew  tired  of 
them — would  have  grown  tired  sooner  if  Joanna  had  not 
clucked  and  shoo'd  them  away,  thus  giving  them  the  gla- 
mour of  the  forbidden  thing.  Joanna  looked  upon  them  all 
as  detrimentals,  presumptuously  lifting  up  their  eyes  to 
Ansdore's  wealth  and  Ellen's  beauty. 

"When  you  fall  in  love,  you  can  take  a  stout  yeoman 
with  a  bit  of  money,  if  you  can't  find  a  real  gentleman  same 
as  I  did.  Howsumever,  you're  too  young  to  go  meddling 
with  such  things  just  yet.  You  be  a  good  girl,  Ellen  Godden, 
and  keep  your  back  straight,  and  don't  let  the  boys  kiss 
you." 

Ellen  had  no  particular  pleasure  in  letting  the  boys  kiss 
her — she  was  a  cold-blooded  little  thing — but,  she  asked 
herself,  what  else  was  there  to  do  in  a  desert  like  Walland 
Marsh?  The  Marsh  mocked  her  every  morning  as  she 
looked  out  of  her  window  at  the  flat  miles  between  Ans- 
dore  and  Dunge  Ness.  This  was  her  home — this  wilderness 
of  straight  dykes  and  crooked  roads,  every  mile  of  which 
was  a  repetition  of  the  mile  before  it.  There  was  never  any 
change  in  that  landscape,  except  such  as  came  from  the 
sky — cloud-shadows  shaking  like  swift  wings  across  the 
swamp  of  buttercups  and  sunshine,  mists  lying  in  strange 
islands  by  the  Sewers,  rain  turning  all  things  grey,  and  the 
wind,  as  it  were,  made  visible  in  a  queer  flying  look  put 
on  by  the  pastures  when  the  storm  came  groaning  inland 
from  Rye  Bay  .  .  .  with  a  great  wailing  of  wind  and  slash 
of  rain  and  a  howl  and  shudder  through  all  the  house. 

She  found  those  months  of  Spring  and  Summer  very 
dreary.  She  disliked  the  ways  of  Ansdore ;  she  met  no  one 
but  common  and  vulgar  people,  who  took  it  for  granted 
that  she  was  just  one  of  themselves.  Of  course  she  had 
lived  through  more  or  less  the  same  experiences  during  her 
holidays,  but  then  the  contact  had  not  been  so  close  or  so 


JOANNA   GODDEN  165 

prolonged,  and  there  had  always  been  the  prospect  of  school 
to  sustain  her. 

But  now  schooldays  were  over,  and  seemed  very  far 
away.  Ellen  felt  cut  off  from  the  life  and  interests  of  those 
happy  years.  She  had  hoped  to  receive  invitations  to  go 
and  stay  with  the  friends  she  had  made  at  school ;  but  months 
went  by  and  none  came.  Her  school-friends  were  being 
absorbed  by  a  life  very  different  from  her  own,  and  she 
was  sensitive  enough  to  realise  that  parents  who  had  not 
minded  her  associating  with  their  daughters  while  they  were 
still  at  school,  would  not  care  for  their  grown-up  lives  to 
be  linked  together.  At  first  letters  were  eagerly  written  and 
constantly  received,  but  in  time  even  this  comfort  failed, 
as  ways  became  still  further  divided,  and  Ellen  found  her- 
self faced  with  the  alternative  of  complete  isolation  or  such 
friendships  as  she  could  make  on  the  marsh. 

She  chose  the  latter.  Though  she  would  have  preferred 
the  humblest  seat  in  a  drawing-room  to  the  place  of  honour 
in  a  farm-house  kitchen,  she  found  a  certain  pleasure  in 
impressing  the  rude  inhabitants  of  Brodnyx  and  Pedlinge 
with  her  breeding  and  taste.  She  accepted  invitations  to 
"drop  in  after  church,"  or  to  take  tea,  and  scratched  up 
rather  uncertain  friendships  with  the  sisters  of  the  boys 
who  admired  her. 

Joanna  watched  her  rather  anxiously.  She  tried  to  per- 
suade herself  that  Ellen  was  happy  and  no  longer  craved 
for  the  alien  soil  from  which  she  had  been  uprooted.  But 
there  was  no  denying  her  own  disappointment.  A  lady 
was  not  the  wonderful  being  Joanna  Godden  had  always 
imagined.  Ellen  refused  to  sit  in  imi)ressive  idleness  on  the 
parlour  .sofa,  not  because  she  disapproved  of  idleness,  but 
because  she  disapproved  of  the  parlour  and  the  sofa.  She 
despised  Joanna's  admirers,  those  stout,  excellent  men  she 
v/as  so  proud  of,  who  had  asked  her  in  marriage,  "as  no 
one  ull  ever  ask  you,  Ellen  Godden,  if  you  give  yourself 
such  airs."  And  worst  of  all,  .she  despised  her  sister  .  .  . 
her  old  Jo,  on  whose  back  she  had  ridden,  in  whose  arms 


166  JOANNA    GODDEN 

she  had  slept.  .  .  .  Those  three  years  of  polite  education 
seemed  to  have  wiped  out  all  the  fifteen  years  of  happy, 
homely  childhood.  Sometimes  Joanna  wished  she  had  never 
sent  her  to  a  grand  school.  All  they  had  done  there  was  to 
stufif  her  head  with  nonsense.  It  would  have  been  better, 
after  all,  if  she  had  gone  to  the  National,  and  learned  to 
say  her  Catechism  instead  of  to  despise  her  home. 


One  day  early  in  October  the  Vines  asked  Ellen  to  go 
with  them  into  Rye  and  visit  Lord  John  Sanger's  Menagerie. 

Joanna  was  delighted  that  her  sister  should  go — a  wild 
beast  show  was  the  ideal  of  entertainment  on  the  Three 
Marshes. 

"You  can  put  on  your  best  gown,  Ellen — the  blue  one 
Miss  Gasson  made  you.  You've  never  been  to  Lord  John 
Sanger's  before,  have  you?  I'd  like  to  go  myself,  but 
Wednesday's  the  day  for  Romney,  and  I  justabout  can't 
miss  this  market.  I  hear  they're  sending  up  some  heifers 
from  Orgarswick,  and  there'll  be  sharp  bidding.  ...  I  envy 
you  going  to  a  wild  beast  show.  I  haven't  been  since  Arthur 
Alee  took  me  in  '93.  That  was  the  first  time  he  asked  me 
to  marry  him.  I've  never  had  the  time  to  go  since,  though 
Sanger's  been  twice  since  then,  and  they  had  Buffalo  Bill 
in  Cadborough  meadow.  ...  I  reckon  you'll  see  some  fine 
riding  and  some  funny  clowns — and  there'll  be  stalls  where 
you  can  buy  things,  and  maybe  a  place  where  you  can  get 
a  cup  of  tea.     You  go  and  enjoy  yourself,  duckie." 

Ellen  smiled  a  wan  smile. 

On  Monday  night  the  news  came  to  the  Vines  that  their 
eldest  son,  Bill,  who  was  in  an  accountant's  office  at  Maid- 
stone, had  died  suddenly  of  peritonitis.  Of  course  Wednes- 
day's jaunt  was  impossible,  and  Joanna  talked  as  if  young 
Bill's  untimely  end  had  been  an  act  of  premeditated  spite. 

"If  only  he'd  waited  till  Thursday — even  Wednesday 
morning  ud  have  done  .  .  .  the  telegram  wouldn't  have  got 


JOANNA    GODDEN  167 

to  them  till  after  they'd  left  the  house,  and  Ellen  ud  have 
had  her  treat." 

Ellen  bore  the  deprivation  remarkably  well,  but  Joanna 
fumed  and  champed.  "I  call  it  a  shame,"  she  said  to  Arthur 
Alee, — "an  unaccountable  shame,  spoiHng  the  poor  child's 
pleasure.  It's  seldom  she  gets  anything  she  likes,  with  all 
her  refined  notions,  but  here  you  have,  as  you  might  say, 
amusement  and  instruction  combined.  If  only  I  hadn't  got 
that  tedious  market  .  .  .  but  go  I  must ;  it's  not  a  job  I 
can  give  to  Broadhurst,  bidding  for  them  heifers — and  I 
mean  to  have  'em.  I  hear  Furnese  is  after  'em,  but  he 
can't  bid  up  to  me." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  take  Ellen  to  the  wild-beast  show?" 
said  Arthur  Alee. 

"Oh,  Arthur — that's  middling  kind  of  you,  that's  neigh- 
bourly.   But  aren't  you  going  into  Romney  yourself?" 

"I've  nothing  particular  to  go  for.  I  don't  want  to  buy. 
If  I  went  it  ud  only  be  to  look  at  stock." 

"Well,  I'd  take  it  as  a  real  kindness  if  you'd  drive  in  Ellen 
to  Rye  on  Wednesday.  The  show's  there  only  for  the  one 
day,  and  nobody  else  is  going  up  from  these  parts  save  the 
Cobbs,  and  I  don't  want  Ellen  to  go  along  with  them  'cos 
of  that  Tom  Cobb  what's  come  back  and  up  to  no  good." 

"I'm  only  too  pleased  to  do  anything  for  you,  Joanna,  as 
you  know  well." 

"Yes,  I  know  it  well.  You've  been  a  hem  good  neighbour 
to  me,  Arthur." 

"A  neighbour  ain't  so  good  as  I'd  like  to  be." 

"Oh,  don't  you  git  started  on  that  again — I  thought  you'd 
done." 

"I'll  never  have  done  of  that." 

Joanna  looked  vexed.  Alec's  wooing  had  grown  stale, 
and  no  longer  gratified  her.  She  ccnild  not  hclj)  comparing 
his  sanrly-haircd  sedatencss  with  her  memories  of  Martin's 
fire  and  youth — that  dead  sweetheart  had  made  it  impos- 
sible for  her  to  look  at  a  man  who  was  not  eager  anrl  virile ; 
her  admirers  were  now  all,  except  for  him,  younger  than 


168  JOANNA    GODDEN 

herself.  She  hkecl  his  friendship,  his  society,  his  ready  and 
unselfish  support,  but  she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  him 
as  a  suitor,  and  there  was  almost  disdain  in  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  like  to  hear  such  talk  from  you,"  she  said  coldly. 
Then  she  remembered  the  silver  tea-set  which  he  had  never 
taken  back,  and  the  offer  he  had  made  just  now.  .  .  .  "Not 
but  that  you  ain't  a  good  friend  to  me,  Arthur — my  best." 

A  faint  pink  crept  under  his  freckles  and  tan. 

"Well,  I  reckon  that  should  ought  to  be  enough  for  me — 
to  hear  you  say  that." 

"I  do  say  it.  And  now  I'll  go  and  tell  Ellen  you're  taking 
her  into  Rye  for  tlie  show.    She'll  be  a  happy  girl." 


3  10 

Ellen  was  not  quite  so  happy  as  her  sister  expected.  Her 
sum  of  spectacular  bliss  stood  in  Shakespearian  plays  which 
she  had  seen,  and  in  "Monsieur  Beaucaire"  which  she  had 
not.  A  wild  beast  show  with  its  inevitable  accompaniment 
of  dust  and  chokiness  and  noise  would  give  her  no  pleasure 
at  all,  and  the  slight  interest  which  had  lain  in  the  escort  of 
the  Vines  with  the  amorous  Staccy  was  now  removed.  She 
did  not  want  Arthur  Alce's  company.  Her  sister's  admirer 
struck  her  as  a  dull  dog. 

"I  won't  trouble  him,"  she  said,  "I'm  sure  he  doesn't 
really  want  to  go." 

"Reckon  he  does,"  said  Joanna,  "he  wants  to  go  anywhere 
that  pleases  me." 

This  did  not  help  to  reconcile  Ellen. 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  be  taken  anywhere  just  to  pleafe 
you." 

"It  pleases  you  too,  don't  it  ?" 

"No,  it  doesn't.  I  don't  care  twopence  about  fairs  and 
shows,  and  Arthur  Alee  bores  me." 

This  double  blasphemy  temporarily  deprived  Joanna  of 
speech. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  169 

"If  he's  only  taking  me  to  please  you,"  continued  Ellen, 
"he  can  just  leave  me  at  home  to  please  myself." 

"What  nonsense !"  cried  her  sister — "here  have  I  been 
racking  around  for  hours  just  to  fix  a  way  of  getting  you 
to  the  Show,  and  now  you  say  you  don't  care  about  it." 

"Well,  I  don't." 

"Then  you  should  ought  to.  I  never  saw  such  airs  as 
you  give  yourself.  Not  care  about  Sanger's  World  Wide 
Show ! — I  tell  you,  you  justabout  shall  go  to  it,  Ma'am, 
whether  you  care  about  it  or  not,  and  Arthur  Alee  shall 
take  you." 

Thus  the  treat  was  arranged,  and  on  Wednesday  after- 
noon Alee  drove  to  the  door  in  his  high,  two-wheeled  dog- 
cart, and  Ellen  climbed  up  beside  him,  under  the  supervision 
of  Mrs.  Tolhurst,  whom  Joanna,  before  setting  out  for 
market,  had  commissioned  to  "see  as  she  went."  Not  that 
Joanna  could  really  bring  herself  to  believe  that  Ellen  was 
truthful  in  saying  she  did  not  care  about  the  show,  but  she 
thought  it  possible  that  sheer  contrariness  might  keep  her 
away. 

Ellen  was  wearing  her  darkest,  demurest  clothes,  in  em- 
phatic contrast  to  the  ribbons  and  laces  in  which  Brodnyx 
and  Pcdlinge  usually  went  to  the  fair.  Her  hair  was  neatly 
coiled  under  her  little,  trim  black  hat,  and  she  wore  dark 
suede  gloves  and  buckled  shoes.  Alee  felt  afraid  of  her, 
especially  as  during  the  drive  she  never  opened  her  mouth 
except  in  brief  response  to  some  remark  of  his. 

Ellen  despised  Arthur  Alee — she  did  not  like  his  looks, 
his  old-fashioned  side-whiskers  and  Gladstone  collars,  or 
the  amount  of  hair  and  freckles  that  covered  the  exposed 
portions  of  his  skin.  She  despised  him,  too,  for  his  devo- 
tion to  Joanna ;  she  did  not  understand  how  a  man  could 
be  inspired  with  a  lifelong  love  for  Joanna,  who  seemed  to 
her  unattractive — coarse  and  bouncing.  She  also  a  little 
resented  this  devotion,  the  way  it  was  accepted  as  an  estab- 
lished fact  in  the  neighbourhood,  a  standing  simi  to  Joanna's 
credit.     Of  course  she  was  fond  of  her  sister — she  could 


170  JOANNA   GODDEN 

not  help  it — but  she  would  have  forgiven  her  more  easily 
for  her  ruthless  domineering,  if  she  had  not  also  had  the 
advantage  in  romance.  An  admirer  who  sighed  hopelessly 
after  you  all  your  life  was  still  to  Ellen  the  summit  of  desire 
— it  was  fortunate  that  she  could  despise  Alee  so  thoroughly 
in  his  person,  or  else  she  might  have  found  herself  jealous 
of  her  sister. 

They  arrived  at  Sanger's  in  good  time  for  the  afternoon 
performance,  and  their  seats  were  the  best  in  the  tent.  Alee, 
ever  mindful  of  Joanna,  bought  Ellen  an  orange  and  a  bag 
of  bulls'-eyes.  During  the  performance  he  was  too  much 
engrossed  to  notice  her  much — the  elephants,  the  clowns, 
the  lovely  ladies,  were  as  fresh  and  wonderful  to  him  as  to 
any  child  present,  though  as  a  busy  farmer  he  had  long  ago 
discarded  such  entertainments  and  would  not  have  gone 
today  if  it  had  not  been  for  Ellen,  or  rather  for  her  sister. 
When  the  interval  came,  however,  he  had  time  to  notice  his 
companion,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  drooped. 

"Are  you  feeling  it  hot  in  here  ?" 

"Yes — it's  very  close." 

He  did  not  offer  to  take  her  out — it  did  not  strike  him 
that  she  could  want  to  leave. 

"You  haven't  sucked  your  orange — that'll  freshen  you  a 
bit." 

Ellen  looked  at  her  orange. 

"Let  me  peel  it  for  you,"  said  Alee,  noticing  h^r  gloved 
hands. 

"Thanks  very  much — but  I  can't  eat  it  here ;  there's  no- 
where to  put  the  skin  and  pips." 

"What  about  the  floor  ?  Reckon  they  sweep  out  the  saw- 
dust after  each  performance." 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  they  do,"  said  Ellen,  whose  next-door 
neighbour  had  spat  at  intervals  between  his  kne^es,  "but 
really,  I'd  rather  keep  the  orange  till  I  get  home." 

At  that  moment  the  ring-master  came  in  to  start  the  second 
half  of  the  entertainment,  and  Alee  turned  away  from  Ellen. 
He  was  unconscious  of  her  till  the  band  played  "God  Save 


JOANNA   GODDEISr  171 

the  King,"  and  there  was  a  great  scraping  of  feet  as  the 
audience  turned  to  go  out. 

"We'll  go  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  said  Alee. 

He  took  her  into  the  refreshment  tent,  and  blundered 
as  far  as  offering  her  a  twopenny  ice-cream  at  the  ice-cream 
stall.  He  was  beginning  to  realise  that  she  took  her  pleas- 
ures differently  from  most  girls  he  knew ;  he  felt  disap- 
pointed and  ill  at  ease  with  her — it  would  be  dreadful  if 
she  went  home  and  told  Joanna  she  had  not  enjoyed  herself. 

"What  would  you  like  to  do  now?"  he  asked  when  they 
had  emptied  their  tea-cups  and  eaten  their  stale  buns  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  steaming,  munching  squash — "there's  swings 
and  stalls  and  a  merry-go-round — and  I  hear  the  Fat  Lady's 
the  biggest  they've  had  yet  in  Rye ;  but  maybe  you  don't 
care  for  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  do,  and  I'm  feeling  rather  tired.  We 
ought  to  be  starting  back  before  long." 

"Oh,  not  till  you've  seen  all  the  sights.  Joanna  ud  never 
forgive  me  if  I  didn't  show  you  the  sights.  We'll  just  stroll 
around,  and  then  we'll  go  to  the  Crown  and  have  the  trap 
put  to." 

Ellen  submitted — she  was  a  bom  submitter,  whose  resent- 
ful and  watchful  submission  had  come  almost  to  the  pitch 
of  art.  She  accompanied  Alee  to  the  swings,  though  she 
would  not  go  up  in  them,  and  to  the  merry-go-round,  though 
she  would  not  ride  in  it. 

"There's  Ellen  Godden  out  with  her  sister's  young  man,'* 
said  a  woman's  voice  in  the  crowd. 

"Maybe  he'll  take  the  young  girl  now  he  can't  get  the  old 
'un,"  a  man  answered  her. 

"Oh,  Arthur  Alee  ull  never  change  from  Joanna  Godden." 

"But  the  sister's  a  dear  lidflle  thing,  better  worth  having 
to  my  mitid." 

"Still  I'll  never  believe.  .  .  ." 

The  voices  were  lost  in  the  crowd,  and  Ellen  never  knew 
who  had  spoken,  but  for  the  first  time  that  afternoon  her 
boredom  was  relieved.     It  was  rather  pleasant  to  have  any- 


172  JOANNA   GODDEN 

one  think  that  Arthur  Alee  was  turning  to  her  from  Joanna 
...  it  would  be  a  triumph  indeed  if  he  actually  did  turn 
,  .  .  for  the  first  time  she  began  to  take  an  interest  in  him. 

The  crowd  was  very  thick,  and  Alee  offered  her  his  arm. 

"Hook  on  to  me,  or  maybe  I'll  lose  you." 

Ellen  did  as  he  told  her,  and  after  a  time  he  felt  her 
weight  increase. 

"Reckon  you're  middling  tired." 

He  looked  down  on  her  with  a  sudden  pity — her  little 
hand  was  like  a  kitten  under  his  arm. 

"Yes,  I  am  rather  tired."  It  was  no  pretence — such  an 
afternoon,  without  the  stimulant  and  sustenance  of  enjoy- 
ment, was  exhausting  indeed. 

"Then  we'll  go  home — reckon  we've  seen  everything." 

He  piloted  her  out  of  the  crush,  and  they  went  to  the 
Crown,  where  the  trap  was  soon  put  to.  Ellen  sat  droop- 
ing along  the  Straight  Mile. 

"Lord,  but  you're  hem  tired,"  said  Alee,  looking  down  at 
her. 

"I've  got  a  little  headache — I  had  it  when  I  started." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  ought  to  have  come." 

"Joanna  said  I  was  to." 

"You  should  have  told  her  about  your  head." 

"I  did — but  she  said  I  must  come  all  the  same.  I  said 
I  was  sure  you  wouldn't  mind,  but  she  wouldn't  let  me  off." 

"Joanna's  valiant  for  getting  her  own  way.  Still,  it  was 
hard  on  you,  liddle  girl,  making  you  come — I  shouldn't  have 
taken  offence." 

"I  know  you  wouldn't.  But  Jo's  so  masterful.  She 
always  wants  me  to  enjoy  myself  in  her  way,  and  being 
strong,  she  doesn't  understand  people  who  aren't." 

"That's  so,  I  reckon.  Still  your  sister's  a  fine  woman, 
Ellen — the  best  I've  known." 

"I'm  sure  she  is,"  snapped  Ellen. 

"But  she  shouldn't  ought  to  have  made  you  come  this 
afternoon,  since  you  were  feeling  poorly." 

"Don't  let  out  I  said  anything  to  you  about  it,  Arthur — 


JOANNA    GODDEN  173 

It  might  make  her  angry.     Oh,  don't  make  her  angry  with 


me."" 


§  11 

During  the  next  few  weeks  it  seemed  to  Joanna  that  her 
sister  was  a  Httle  more  alert.  She  went  out  more  among 
the  neighbours,  and  when  Joanna's  friends  came  to  see  her, 
she  no  longer  sulked  remotely,  but  came  into  the  parlour, 
and  was  willing  to  play  the  piano  and  talk  and  be  enter- 
taining. Indeed,  once  or  twice  when  Joanna  was  busy  she 
had  sat  with  Arthur  Alee  after  tea  and  made  herself  most 
agreeable — so  he  said. 

The  fact  was  that  Ellen  had  a  new  interest  in  life.  Those 
words  sown  casually  in  her  thoughts  at  the  Show  were 
bearing  remarkable  fruit.  She  had  pondered  them  well, 
and  weighed  her  chances,  and  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  would  be  a  fine  and  not  impossible  thing  to  win  Arthur 
Alee  from  Joanna  to  herself. 

She  did  not  see  why  she  should  not  be  able  to  do  so.  She 
was  prettier  than  her  sister,  younger,  more  accomplished, 
better  educated.  Alee  on  his  side  must  be  tired  of  wooing 
without  response.  When  he  saw  there  was  a  chance  of 
Ellen,  he  would  surely  take  it  ;and  then — what  a  triumph ! 
How  people  would  talk  and  marvel  when  they  saw  Joanna 
Goddcn's  life-long  admirer  turn  from  her  to  her  little 
sister!  They  would  be  forced  to  acknowledge  Ellen  as  a 
superior  and  enchanting  person.  Of  course  there  was  the 
disadvantage  that  she  did  not  particularly  want  Arthur  Alee, 
but  her  schemings  did  not  take  her  as  far  as  matrimony. 

She  was  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  the  best  way  to  cap- 
ture Alee  was  to  make  herself  as  unlike  her  sister  as  possible. 
With  him  she  was  like  a  little  soft  cat,  languid  and  sleek, 
or  else  delicately  playful.  She  appealed  to  his  protecting 
strength,  and  in  time  made  him  realise  that  she  was  unhappy 
in  her  home-life  and  suffered  uiuler  her  sister's  tyranny. 
She  had  hoped  that  this  might  help  detach  him  from 
Joanna,  but  his  affection  was  of  that  passive,  tenacious  kind 


174  JOANNA    GODDEN 

which  tacitly  accepts  all  the  faults  of  the  beloved.  He  was 
always  ready  to  sympathise  with  Ellen,  and  once  or  twice 
expostulated  with  Joanna — but  his  loyalty  showed  no  signs 
of  wavering. 

As  time  went  on,  Ellen  began  to  like  him  more  in  himself. 
She  grew  accustomed  to  his  red  hair  and  freckles,  and  when 
he  was  in  his  everyday  kit  of  gaiters  and  breeches  and  broad- 
cloth, she  did  not  find  him  unattractive.  Moreover,  she 
could  not  fail  to  appreciate  his  fundamental  qualities  of 
generosity  and  gentleness — he  was  like  a  big,  faithful,  gentle 
dog,  a  red-haired  collie,  following  and  serving. 

§  12 

The  weeks  went  by,  and  Ellen  still  persevered.  But  she 
was  disappointed  in  results.  She  had  thought  that  Alce's 
subjection  would  not  take  very  long,  she  had  not  expected 
the  matter  to  drag.  It  was  the  fault  of  his  crass  stupidity 
— he  was  unable  to  see  what  she  was  after,  he  looked  upon 
her  just  as  a  little  girl,  Joanna's  little  sister,  and  was  good 
to  her  for  Joanna's  sake. 

This  was  humiliating,  and  Ellen  fretted  and  chafed  at  her 
inability  to  make  him  see.  She  was  no  siren,  and  was  with- 
out either  the  parts  or  the  experience  for  a  definite  attack 
on  his  senses.  She  worked  as  an  amateur  and  a  schoolgirl, 
with  only  a  certain  fundamental  shrewdness  to  guide  her; 
she  was  doubtless  becoming  closer  friends  with  Alee — he 
liked  to  sit  and  talk  to  her  after  tea,  and  often  gave  her  lifts 
in  his  trap — but  he  used  their  intimacy  chiefly  to  confide  in 
her  his  love  and  admiration  for  her  sister,  which  was  not 
what  Ellen  wanted. 

The  first  person  to  see  what  was  happening  was  Joanna 
herself.  She  had  been  glad  for  some  time  of  Ellen's  in- 
creased friendliness  with  Alee,  but  had  put  it  down  to 
nothing  more  than  the  comradeship  of  that  happy  day  at 
Lord  John  Sanger's  show.  Then  something  in  Ellen's  look 
as  she  spoke  to  Arthur,  in  her  manner  as  she  spoke  of  him, 
made   her   suspicious — and  one   Sunday  evening,   walking 


JOANNA   GODDEN  175 

home  from  Church,  she  became  sure.  The  service  had  been 
at  Pedhnge,  in  the  queer  barn-like  church  whose  walls  in- 
side were  painted  crimson ;  and  directly  it  was  over  Ellen 
had  taken  charge  of  Alee,  v/ho  was  coming  back  to  supper 
with  them.  Alee  usually  went  to  his  parish  church  at  Old 
Romney,  but  had  accepted  Ellen's  invitation  to  accompany 
the  Goddens  that  day,  and  now  Ellen  seemed  anxious  that 
he  should  not  walk  with  her  and  Joanna,  but  had  taken  him 
on  ahead,  leaving  Joanna  to  walk  with  the  Southlands. 

The  elder  sister  watched  them — Alee  a  little  oafish  in 
his  Sunday  blacks,  Ellen  wearing  her  new  Spring  hat  with 
the  daisies.  As  she  spoke  to  him  she  lifted  her  face  on  her 
graceful  neck  like  a  swan,  and  her  voice  was  eager  and 
rather  secret.  Joanna  lost  the  thread  of  Mrs.  Southland's 
reminiscences  of  her  last  dairy  girl,  and  she  watched  Ellen, 
watched  her  hands,  watched  the  shrug  of  her  shoulders 
under  her  gown — the  girl's  whole  body  seemed  to  be  moving, 
not  restlessly  or  jerkily,  but  with  a  queer  soft  ripple. 

Then  Joanna  suddenly  said  to  herself — "She  loves  him. 
Ellen  wants  Arthur  Alee."  Her  first  emotion  was  of  anger, 
a  resolve  to  stop  this  impudence ;  but  the  next  minute  she 
pitied  instead — Ellen,  with  her  fragile  beauty,  her  little  die- 
away  airs,  would  never  be  able  to  get  Arthur  Alee  from 
Joanna,  to  whom  he  belonged.  He  was  hers,  both  by  choice 
and  habit,  and  Ellen  would  never  get  him.  Then  from  pity, 
she  passed  into  tenderness — she  was  sorry  Ellen  could  not 
get  Arthur,  could  not  have  him  when  she  wanted  him,  while 
Joanna,  who  could  have  him,  did  not  want  him.  It  would 
be  a  good  thing  for  her,  too.  Alec  was  steady  and  well- 
established — he  was  not  like  those  mucky  young  Vines  and 
Southlands.  Ellen  would  be  safe  to  marry  him.  It  was  a 
pity  she  hadn't  a  chance. 

Joanna  looked  almost  sentimentally  at  ihe  couple  ahead — 
then  she  suddenly  made  up  her  mind.  "If  I  spoke  to  Arthur 
Alee,  I  believe  I  could  make  him  do  it."  She  could  make 
Arthur  do  most  things,  and  she  did  not  .see  why  he  should 
stop  at  this.     Of  course  she  did  not  want  Ellen  to  marry 


176  JOANNA    GODDEN 

him  or  anybody,  but  now  she  had  once  come  to  think  of  it 
she  could  see  plainly,  in  spite  of  herself,  that  marriage  would 
be  a  good  thing  for  her  sister.  She  was  being  forced  up 
against  the  fact  that  her  schemes  for  Ellen  had  failed — 
school-life  had  spoiled  her,  home-life  was  making  both  her 
and  home  miserable.  The  best  thing  she  could  do  would 
be  to  marry,  but  she  must  marry  a  good  man  and  true — 
Alee  was  both  good  and  true,  and  moreover  his  marriage 
would  set  Joanna  free  from  his  hang-dog  devotion,  of  which 
she  was  beginning  to  grow  heartily  tired.  She  appreciated 
his  friendship  and  his  usefulness,  but  they  could  both  sur- 
vive, and  she  would  at  the  same  time  be  free  of  his  senti- 
mental lapses,  the  constant  danger  of  a  declaration.  Yes, 
Ellen  should  have  him — she  would  make  a  present  of  him 
to  Ellen. 

§  13 

"Arthur,  I  want  a  word  with  you." 

They  were  alone  in  the  parlour,  Ellen  having  been  dis- 
patched resentfully  on  an  errand  to  Great  Ansdore. 

"About  them  wethers?" 

"No — it's  a  different  thing.  Arthur,  have  you  noticed 
that  Ellen's  sweet  on  you?" 

Joanna's  approach  to  a  subject  was  ever  direct,  but  this 
time  she  seemed  to  have  taken  the  breath  out  of  Arthur's 
body. 

"Ellen  .  .  ,  sweet  on  me?"  he  gasped. 

"Yes,  you  blind-eyed  owl.  I've  seen  it  for  a  dunnamany 
weeks." 

"But — Ellen?  That  liddle  girl  ud  never  care  an  onion 
for  a  dull,  dry  chap  lik  me." 

"Reckon  she  would.  You  ain't  such  a  bad  chap,  Arthur, 
though  I  could  never  bring  myself  to  take  you." 

"Well,  I  must  say  I  haven't  noticed  anything,  or  maybe 
I'd  have  spoken  to  you  about  it.  I'm  unaccountable  sorry, 
Jo,  and  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  help  you  stop  it." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  177 

"I'm  not  sure  I  want  to  stop  it.  I  was  thinking  only  this 
evening  as  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  plan  if  you  married  Ellen." 

"But,  Jo,  I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody  but  you." 

"Reckon  that's  middling  stupid  of  you,  for  I'll  never  marry 
you,  Arthur  Alee — never!" 

"Then  I  don't  want  nobody." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do.  You'll  be  a  fool  if  you  don't  marry 
and  get  a  wife  to  look  after  you  and  your  house,  which  has 
wanted  new  window-blinds  this  eighteen  month.  You  can't 
have  me,  so  you  may  as  well  have  Ellen — she's  next  best  to 
me,  I  reckon,  and  she's  middling  sweet  on  you." 

"Ellen's  a  dear  liddle  thing,  as  I've  always  said  against 
them  that  said  otherwise — but  I've  never  thought  of  marry- 
ing her,  and  reckon  she  don't  want  to  marry  me,  she'd  sooner 
marry  a  stout  young  Southland  or  young  Vine." 

"She  ain't  going  to  marry  any  young  Vine.  When  she 
marries  I'll  see  she  marries  a  steady,  faithful,  solid  chap, 
and  you're  the  best  I  know." 

"It's  kind  of  you  to  say  it,  but  reckon  it  wouldn't  be  a 
good  thing  for  me  to  marry  one  sister  when  I  love  the  other." 

"But  you'll  never  get  the  other,  not  till  the  moon's  cheese, 
so  there's  no  sense  in  vrothering  about  that.  And  I  want 
Ellen  to  marry  you,  Arthur,  since  she's  after  you.  I  never 
meant  her  to  marry  yet  awhiles,  but  reckon  I  can't  make 
her  happy  at  home — I've  tried  and  I  can't — so  you  may  as 
well  try." 

"It  ud  be  difficult  to  make  Ellen  happy — she's  a  queer 
lirldle  dentical  thing." 

"I  know,  but  marriage  is  a  wonderful  soborcr-down. 
She'll  be  happy  once  she  gets  a  man  and  a  house  of  her 


own." 


"I'm  not  so  sure.  Anyways  I'm  not  the  man  for  her. 
She  should  ought  to  marry  a  gentleman." 

"Well,  there  ain't  none  for  her  to  marry,  nor  likely  to  be 
none.  She'll  go  sour  if  she  has  to  stand  .  .  .  and  she  wants 
you,  Arthur.    I  wouldn't  be  asking  you  this  if  I  hadn't  seen 


178  JOANNA   GODDEN 

she  wanted  you,  and  seen  too  as  the  best  thing  as  could 
happen  to  her  would  be  for  her  to  marry  you." 

"I'm  sure  she'll  never  take  me." 

*'You  can  but  ask  her." 

"She'll  say  'No'." 

"Reckon  she  won't — but  if  she  does,  there'll  be  no  harm 
in  asking  her." 

"You  queer  me,  Jo — it  seems  a  foolish  thing  to  marry 
Ellen  when  I  want  to  marry  you." 

"But  I  tell  you,  you  can  never  marry  me.  You're  a  stupid 
man,  Arthur,  who  won't  see  things  as  they  are.  You  go 
hankering  after  whom  you  can't  get,  and  all  the  time  you 
might  get  someone  who's  hankering  after  you.  It's  a  lamen- 
table waste,  I  say,  and  I'll  never  be  pleased  if  you  don't 
ask  Ellen.  It  ain't  often  I  ask  you  to  do  anything  to  please 
me,  and  this  is  no  hard  thing.  Ellen's  a  fine  match — a  pretty 
girl,  and  clever,  and  well-taught — she'll  play  the  piano  to 
your  friends.  And  I'll  see  as  she  has  a  bit  of  money  with 
her.  You'll  do  well  for  yourself  by  taking  her,  and  I  tell 
you,  Arthur,  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  your  dangling  after  me," 

§  14 

Joanna  had  many  more  conversations  with  Arthur  Alee, 
and  in  the  end  bore  down  his  objections.  She  used  her 
tongue  to  such  good  purpose  that  by  next  Sunday  he  had 
come  to  see  that  Ellen  wanted  him,  and  that  for  him  to 
marry  her  would  be  the  best  thing  for  everyone — Joanna, 
Ellen  and  himself.  After  all,  it  wasn't  as  if  he  had  the 
slightest  chance  of  Joanna — she  had  made  that  abundantly 
clear,  and  his  devotion  did  not  feed  on  hope  so  much  as 
on  a  stale  content  in  being  famous  throughout  three  marshes 
as  her  rejected  suitor.  Perhaps  it  was  not  amiss  that  her 
sudden  call  should  stir  him  into  a  more  active  and  vital 
service. 

In  the  simplicity  of  his  heart,  he  saw  nothing  outrageous 
in  her  demands.    She  was  troubled  and  anxious  about  Ellen, 


JOANNA    GODDEN  179 

and  had  a  right  to  expect  him  to  help  her  solve  this  problem 
in  the  best  way  that  had  occurred  to  her.  As  for  Ellen 
herself,  now  his  attention  had  been  called  to  the  matter, 
he  could  see  that  she  admired  him  and  sought  him  out.  Why 
she  should  do  so  was  as  much  a  mystery  as  ever — he  could 
not  think  why  so  soft  and  dainty  and  beautiful  a  creature 
should  want  to  marry  a  homely  chap  like  himself.  But  he 
did  not  doubt  the  facts,  and  when,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
second  week,  he  proposed  to  her,  he  was  much  less  sur- 
prised at  her  acceptance  than  she  was  herself. 

Ellen  had  never  meant  to  accept  him — all  she  had  wanted 
had  been  the  mere  proclaimable  fact  of  his  surrender;  but 
during  the  last  weeks  the  focus  of  her  plans  had  shifted — 
they  had  come  to  mean  more  than  the  gratification  of  her 
vanity.  The  denial  of  what  she  sought,  the  dragging  of  her 
schemes,  the  growing  sense  of  hopelessness,  had  made  her 
see  just  exactly  how  much  she  wanted.  She  would  really 
like  to  marry  Alec — the  slight  physical  antipathy  with  which 
she  had  started  had  now  disappeared,  and  she  felt  that  she 
would  not  object  to  him  as  a  lover.  He  was,  moreover,  an 
excellent  match — better  than  any  young  Vines  or  South- 
lands or  Furncses ;  as  his  wife  she  would  be  important  and 
well-to-do,  her  triumjjh  would  be  sealed,  open  and  cele- 
brated. .  .  .  She  would  moreover  be  free.  That  was  the 
strong  hidden  growth  that  had  heaved  uj)  her  flat  little  plans 
of  a  mere  victory  in  tattle — if  she  married  she  would  be  her 
own  mistress,  free  for  ever  of  Jcianna's  tyranny.  She  could 
do  what  she  liked  with  Alee — she  would  be  able  to  go  where 
.she  liked,  know  whom  she  liked,  wear  what  she  liked; 
whereas  with  Joanna  all  these  things  were  ruthlessly  de- 
creed. Of  course  she  was  fond  of  Jo,  but  she  was  tired 
of  living  with  her — you  couldn't  call  your  soul  your  own — 
she  would  never  be  happy  till  she  had  made  herself  inde- 
pendent of  Jo,  and  only  marriage  would  do  that.  She  was 
tired  of  sulking  and  submitting — she  could  make  a  better 
life  for  herself  over  at  Donkey  Street  than  .she  could  at 
Ansdore.    Of  course  if  she  waited,  she  might  get  somebody 


180  JOANNA    GODDEN 

better,  but  she  might  have  to  wait  a  long  time,  and  she  did 
not  care  for  waiting.  She  was  not  old  or  patient  or  calcu- 
lating enough  to  be  a  really  successful  schemer ;  her  plans 
carried  her  this  time  only  as  far  as  a  triumph  over  Joanna 
and  an  escape  from  Ansdore. 

§15 

Certainly  her  triumph  was  a  great  one.  Brodnyx  and 
Pedlinge  had  never  expected  such  a  thing.  Their  attitude 
had  hitherto  been  that  of  the  man  at  the  fair,  who  would 
rather  distrust  appearances  than  believe  Arthur  Alee  could 
change  from  Joanna  Godden  to  her  sister  Ellen.  It  would 
have  been  as  easy  to  think  of  the  sunset  changing  from  Rye 
to  Court-at-Street. 

There  was  a  general  opinion  that  Joanna  had  been  injured 
— though  no  one  really  doubted  her  sincerity  when  she  said 
that  she  would  never  have  taken  Arthur.  Her  evident 
pleasure  in  the  wedding  was  considered  magnanimous — it 
was  also  a  little  disappointing  to  Ellen.  Not  that  she  wanted 
Joanna  to  be  miserable,  but  she  would  have  liked  her  to  be 
rather  more  sensible  of  her  sister's  triumph,  to  regret  rather 
more  the  honour  that  had  been  taken  from  her.  The  bear's 
hug  with  which  her  sister  had  greeted  her  announcement,  the 
eager  way  in  which  she  had  urged  and  hustled  preparations 
for  the  wedding,  all  seemed  a  little  incongruous  and  humil- 
iating. .  .  .  Joanna  should  at  least  have  had  some  moments 
of  realising  her  fallen  state. 

However,  what  she  missed  at  home  Ellen  received  abroad. 
Some  neighbours  were  evidently  ofifended,  especially  those 
who  had  sons  to  mate.  Mrs.  Vine  had  been  very  stiff  when 
Ellen  called  with  Alee. 

"Well,  Arthur" — ignoring  the  bride-to-be — "I  always  felt 
certain  you  would  marry  Ansdore,  but  it  was  the  head  I 
thought  you'd  take  and  not  the  tail." 

"Oh.  the  tail's  good  enough  for  me,"  said  Arthur,  which 
Ellen  thought  clumsy  of  him. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  181 

Having  taken  the  step,  Arthur  was  curiously  satisfied. 
His  obedience  in  renouncing  Joanna  seemed  to  have  brought 
him  closer  to  her  than  all  his  long  wooing.  Besides,  he  was 
growing  very  fond  of  little  Ellen — her  soft,  clinging  ways 
and  little  sleek  airs,  appealed  to  him  as  those  of  a  small 
following  animal  would,  and  he  was  proud  of  her  cleverness, 
and  of  her  prettiness,  which  now  he  had  come  to  see,  though 
for  a  long  time  he  had  not  appreciated  it,  because  it  was 
so  different  from  Joanna's  healthy  red  and  brown. 

lie  took  her  round  to  the  farms,  not  only  in  her  own 
neighbourhood,  but  those  near  Donkey  Street,  over  on  Rom- 
ney  Marsh,  across  the  Rhee  Wall.  In  her  honour  he  bought 
a  new  trap,  and  Ellen  drove  beside  him  in  it,  sitting  very 
demure  and  straight.  People  said — "There  goes  Ellen  God- 
den,  who's  marrying  her  sister's  young  man,"  and  sometimes 
Ellen  heard  them. 

She  inspected  Donkey  Street,  which  was  a  low,  plain, 
oblong  house,  covered  with  grey  stucco,  against  which 
flamed  the  orange  of  its  lichencd  roof.  It  had  been  built 
in  Queen  Anne's  time,  and  enlarged  and  stuccoed  over  about 
fifty  years  ago.  It  was  a  good,  solid  house,  less  rambling 
than  Ansdore,  but  the  kitchens  were  a  little  damp. 

Alee  bought  new  linen  and  new  furniture.  lie  had  some 
nice  pieces  of  old  furniture  too,  which  Ellen  was  very  proud 
of.  She  felt  she  could  make  quite  a  pleasant  country  house 
of  Donkey  Street.  In  spite  of  Joanna's  protests,  Alee  let 
her  have  her  own  way  about  styles  and  colours,  and  her 
parlour  was  quite  unlike  anything  ever  seen  on  the  Marsh 
outside  North  Farthing  and  Dungemarsh  Court.  There 
was  no  centre  table  and  no  cabinet,  but  a  deep,  comfortable 
sofa  which  Ellen  called  a  chesterfield,  and  a  "cosy  corner," 
and  a  sheraton  bureau,  and  a  sheraton  china-cupboard  with 
glass  doors.  The  carpet  was  purple,  without  any  pattern 
on  it,  and  the  cushions  were  purple  and  black.  For  several 
days  those  black  cushions  wrre  the  talk  of  the  Woolpack 
bar  and  every  farm.  It  reminded  Joanna  a  little  of  the 
frenzy  that  had  greeted  the  first  appearance  of  her  yellow 


182  JOANNA    GODDEN 

waggons,  and  for  the  first  time  she  felt  a  little  jealous  of 
Ellen. 

She  sometimes,  too,  had  moments  of  depression  at  the 
thought  of  losing  her  sister,  of  being  once  more  alone  at 
Ansdore,  but  having  once  made  up  her  mind  that  Ellen 
was  to  marry  Arthur  Alee,  she  was  anxious  to  carry  through 
the  scheme  as  quickly  and  magnificently  as  possible.  The 
wedding  was  fixed  for  May,  and  was  to  be  the  most  won- 
derful wedding  in  the  experience  of  the  three  marshes  of 
Walland,  Dunge  and  Romney.  For  a  month  Joanna's  trap 
spanked  daily  along  the  Straight  Mile,  taking  her  and  Ellen 
either  into  Rye  to  the  confectioner's — for  Joanna  had  too 
true  a  local  instinct  to  do  as  her  sister  wanted  and  order 
the  cake  from  London — or  to  the  station  for  Folkestone 
where  the  clothes  for  both  sisters  were  being  bought.  They 
had  many  a  squabble  over  the  clothes — Ellen  pleaded  pas- 
sionately for  the  soft,  silken  undergarments  in  the  Robertson 
Street  windov/s,  for  the  little  lace-trimmed  drawers  and 
chemises  ...  it  was  cruel  and  bigoted  of  Joanna  to  buy 
yards  and  yards  of  calico  for  nightgowns  and  "petticoat 
bodies,"  with  trimmings  of  untearable  embroidery.  It  was 
also  painful  to  be  obliged  to  wear  a  saxe-blue  going-away 
dress  when  she  wanted  an  olive  green,  but  Ellen  reflected 
that  she  was  submitting  for  the  last  time,  and  anyhow  she 
was  spared  the  worst  by  the  fact  that  the  wedding-gown 
must  be  white — not  much  scope  for  Joanna  there. 

§  16 

The  day  before  the  wedding  Joanna  felt  unusually  nerv- 
ous and  restless.  The  preparations  had  been  carried  through 
so  vigorously  that  everything  was  ready — there  was  nothing 
to  do,  no  finishing  touch,  and  into  her  mind  came  a  sudden 
blank  and  alarm.  All  that  evening  she  was  unable  to 
settle  down  either  to  work  or  rest — Ellen  had  gone  to  bed 
tarly,  convinced  of  the  good  effect  of  sleep  on  her  com- 
plexion, and  Joanna  prowled  unhappily  from  room  to  room. 


JOANNA   GODDEN  183 

glancing  about  mechanically  for  dust  which  she  knew  could 
not  be  there  .  .  .  the  farm  was  just  a  collection  of  gleam- 
ing surfaces  and  crackling  chintzes  and  gay,  dashing  colours. 
Everything  was  as  she  wished  it,  yet  did  not  please  her. 

She  went  into  her  room.  On  the  little  spare  bed  which 
had  once  been  Ellen's  lay  a  mass  of  tissue  paper,  veiling  a 
marvellous  gown  of  brown  and  orange  shot  silk,  the  colour 
of  the  sunburn  on  her  cheeks,  which  she  was  to  wear  to- 
morrow when  she  gave  the  bride  away.  In  vain  had  Ellen 
protested  and  said  it  would  look  ridiculous  if  she  came  down 
the  aisle  with  her  sister — Joanna  had  insisted  on  her  pre- 
rogative. "It  isn't  as  if  we  had  any  he-cousins  fit  to  look 
at — I'll  cut  a  better  figger  than  either  Tom  or  Pete  Stans- 
bury,  and  what  right  has  either  of  them  to  give  you  away, 
I'd  like  to  know?"  Ellen  had  miserably  suggested  Sam 
Huxtable,  but  Joanna  had  fixed  herself  in  her  mind's  eye, 
swaggering,  rustling  and  flaming  up  Pedlinge  aisle,  with 
the  little  drooping  lily  of  the  bride  upon  her  arm.  "Who 
giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man?"  Mr.  Pratt 
would  say — "I  do,"  Joanna  would  answer.  Everyone  would 
stare  at  Joanna,  and  remember  that  Arthur  Alee  had  loved 
her  for  years  before  he  loved  her  sister — she  was  certainly 
"giving"  Ellen  to  him  in  a  double  sense. 

She  would  be  just  as  grand  and  important  at  this  wedding 
as  she  could  possibly  have  been  at  her  own,  yet  tonight  the 
prospect  had  ceased  to  thrill  her.  Was  it  because  in  this 
her  first  idleness  she  realised  she  was  giving  away  something 
she  wanted  to  keep?  Or  because  she  saw  that,  after  all, 
being  grand  and  imj)ortant  at  another  person's  wedding  is 
not  as  good  a  thing  even  as  being  humble  at  your  own? 

"Well,  it  might  have  been  my  own  if  I'd  liked,"  she  said 
to  herself,  but  even  that  consideration  failed  to  cheer  her. 

She  went  over  to  the  chest  of  drawers.  On  it  stood  Mar- 
tin's photogra[)h  in  a  black  velvet  frame  adorned  with  a 
small  metal  shield  on  which  were  engraved  the  words  "Not 
lost  but  gone  before."  The  photograph  was  a  little  faded 
— Martin's  eyes  had  lost  some  of  their  appealing  darkness 


184  JOANNA   GODDEN 

and  the  curves  of  the  mouth  she  had  loved  were  dim.  .  .  . 
She  put  her  face  close  to  the  faded  face  in  the  photograph, 
and  looked  at  it.  Gradually  it  blurred  in  a  mist  of  tears, 
and  she  could  feel  her  heart  beating  very  slowly,  as  if  each 
beat  were  an  effort.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  she  found  herself  thinking  about  Ellen  in 
a  new  way,  with  a  new,  strange  anxiety.  Martin's  fading 
face  seemed  to  have  taught  her  about  Ellen,  about  some 
preparation  for  the  wedding  which  might  have  been  left 
out,  in  spite  of  all  the  care  and  order  of  the  burnished  house. 
Did  she  really  love  Arthur  Alee? — Did  she  really  know 
what  she  was  doing — what  love  meant  ? 

Joanna  put  down  the  photograph  and  straightened  her 
back.  She  thought  of  her  sister  alone  for  the  last  time  in 
her  big  flowery  bedroom,  lying  down  for  the  last  time  in 
the  rose-curtained,  mahogany  bed,  for  her  last  night's  rest 
under  Ansdore's  roof.  It  was  the  night  on  which,  if  she 
had  not  been  motherless,  her  mother  would  have  gone  to 
her  with  love  and  advice.  Surely  on  this  night  of  all  nights 
it  was  not  for  Joanna  to  shirk  the  mother's  part. 

Her  heaviness  had  gone,  for  its  secret  cause  had  been 
displayed — no  doubt  this  anxiety  and  this  question  had 
lurked  with  her  all  the  evening,  following  her  from  room 
to  room.  She  did  not  hesitate,  but  went  down  the  passage 
to  Ellen's  door,  which  she  opened  as  usual  without  knocking. 

"Not  in  bed  yet,  duckie?" 

Ellen  was  sitting  on  the  bolster,  in  her  little  old  plain 
linen  nightdress  buttoning  to  her  neck,  two  long  plaits  hang- 
ing over  her  shoulders.  The  light  of  the  rose-shaded  lamp 
streamed  on  the  flowery  walls  and  floor  of  her  compulsory 
bower,  showing  the  curtains  and  pictures  and  vases  and 
Father's  Buffalo  Certificate — showing  also  her  packed  and 
corded  trunks,  lying  there  like  big,  blobbed  seals  on  her 
articles  of  emancipation. 

"Hullo,"  she  said  to  Joanna,  "I'm  just  going  to  get  in." 
She  did  not  seem  particularly  pleased  to  see  her. 

"You  pop  under  the  clothes,  and  I'll  tuck  you  up.    There's 


JO.INNA   GODDEN  185 

something  i  want  to  speak  to  you  about  if  3^ou  ain't  too 
sleepy." 

"About  what  ?" 

"About  this  wedding  of  yours." 

"You've  spoken  to  me  about  nothing  else  for  weeks  and 
months." 

"But  I  want  to  speak  to  you  different  and  most  particular. 
Duckie,  are  you  quite  sure  you  love  Arthur  Alee?" 

"Of  course  I'm  sure,  or  I  shouldn't  be  marrying  him." 

"There's  an  unaccountable  lot  of  reasons  why  any  gal  ud 
snap  at  Arthur.  He's  got  a  good  name  and  a  good  establish- 
ment, and  he's  as  mild-mannered  and  obliging  as  a  cow." 

Ellen  looked  disconcerted  at  hearing  her  bridegroom  thus 
defined. 

"If  that's  all  I  saw  in  him  I  shouldn't  have  said  'yes.' 
I  like  him — he's  got  a  kind  heart  and  good  manners,  and 
he  won't  interfere  with  mc — he'll  let  me  do  as  I  please." 

"But  that  ain't  enough — it  ain't  enough  for  you  just  to 
like  him.  Do  you  love  him? — It's  struck  me  all  of  a  sudden, 
Ellen,  I've  never  made  sure  of  that,  and  it  ud  be  a  lamentable 
job  if  you  was  to  get  married  to  Arthur  without  loving 
him." 

"But  I  do  love  him — I've  told  you.  And  may  I  ask,  Jo, 
what  you'd  have  done  now  if  I'd  said  I  didn't?  It's  rather 
late  for  breaking  off  the  match." 

Joanna  had  never  contcmi)lated  such  a  thing.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  say  exactly  how  far  her  plans  had  stretched, 
probably  no  further  than  the  arc^umcnt  and  moral  suasion 
which  would  forcibly  comjicl  Ellen  to  love  if  she  did  not 
love  already. 

"No,  no — I'd  never  have  you  break  it  off — with  the 
carriages  and  the  breakfast  ordered,  and  my  new  gownd, 
and  your  troossoo  and  all.  .  .  .  But,  Ellen,  if  you  7va)it  to 
change  your  mind.  ...  I  mean,  if  you  feel,  thinking  honest, 
that  you  don't  love  Arthur  ...  for  pity's  sake  say  so  now 
before  it's  too  late.  I'll  stand  by  you — I'll  face  the  racket 
— I'd  sooner  you  did  anything  than — " 


186  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Oh,  don't  be  an  ass,  Jo.  Of  course  I  don't  want  to 
change  my  mind.  I  know  what  I'm  doing,  and  I'm  very 
fond  of  Arthur — I  love  him,  if  you  want  the  word.  I  Hke 
being  with  him,  and  I  even  Hke  it  when  he  kisses  me.  So 
you  needn't  worry." 

"Marriage  is  more  than  just  being  kissed  and  having  a 
man  about  the  house." 

"I  know  it  is." 

Something  in  the  way  she  said  it  made  Joanna  see  she 
was  abysmally  ignorant. 

"Is  there  anything  you'd  like  to  ask  me,  dearie?" 

"Nothing  you  could  possibly  know  anything  about." 

Joanna  turned  on  her. 

"I'll  learn  you  to  sass  me.    You  dare  say  such  a  thing !" 

"Well,  Jo — you're  not  married,  and  there  are  some  things 
you  don't  know." 

"That's  right — call  me  an  old  maid!  I  tell  you  I  could 
have  made  a  better  marriage  than  you,  my  girl.  ...  I  could 
have  made  the  very  marriage  you're  making,  for  the  matter 
of  that." 

She  stood  up,  preparing  to  go  in  anger.  Then  suddenly 
as  she  looked  down  on  Ellen,  fragile  and  lily-white  among 
the  bed-clothes,  her  heart  smote  her  and  she  relented.  This 
was  Ellen's  last  night  at  home. 

"Don't  let's  grumble  at  each  other.  I  know  you  and  I 
haven't  quite  hit  it  off,  my  dear,  and  I'm  sorry,  as  I  counted 
a  lot  on  us  being  at  Ansdore  together.  I  thought  maybe 
we'd  be  at  Ansdore  together  all  our  lives.  Howsumever,  I 
reckon  things  are  better  as  they  are — it  was  my  own  fault, 
trying  to  make  a  lady  of  you,  and  I'm  glad  it's  all  well  ended. 
Only  see  as  it's  truly  well  ended,  dear — for  Arthur's  sake 
as  well  as  yours.  He's  a  good  chap  and  deserves  the  best 
of  you." 

Ellen  was  still  angry,  but  something  about  Joanna  as  she 
stooped  over  the  bed,  her  features  obscure  in  the  lamplight, 
her   shadow   dim  and  monstrous  on  the  ceiling,   made   a 


JOANNA    GODDEN  187 

sudden,  almost  reproachful  appeal.    A  rush  of  genuine  feel- 
ing made  her  stretch  out  her  arms. 
Jo.   .   .   . 

Joanna  stooped  and  caught  her  to  her  heart,  and  for  a 
moment,  the  last  moment,  the  big  and  the  little  sister  were 
as  in  times  of  old. 

§  17 

Ellen's  wedding  was  the  most  wonderful  that  Brodnyx 
and  Pedlinge  had  seen  for  years.  It  was  a  pity  that  the 
law  of  the  land  required  it  to  take  place  in  Pedlinge  church, 
which  was  comparatively  small  and  mean,  and  which  indeed 
Joanna  could  never  feel  was  so  established  as  the  church 
at  Brodnyx,  because  it  had  only  the  old  harmonium,  and 
queer  paintings  of  angels  instead  of  the  lion  and  the  unicorn. 

However,  Mr.  Elphick  ground  and  sweated  wonders  out 
of  "the  old  harmonister,"  as  it  was  affectionately  called  by 
the  two  parishes,  and  everyone  was  too  busy  staring  at  the 
bride  and  the  bride's  sister  to  notice  whether  angels  or  King 
George  the  Third  presided  over  the  altar. 

Joanna  had  all  the  success  that  she  had  longed  for  and 
expected.  She  walked  down  the  aisle  with  Ellen  white  and 
drooping  on  her  arm,  like  a  sunflower  escorting  a  lily. 
When  Mr.  Pratt  said  "Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  mar- 
ried to  this  man  ?"  she  answered  "I  do"  in  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  shake  the  church.  Afterwards,  she  took  her  handker- 
chief out  of  her  pocket  and  cried  a  little,  as  is  seemly  at 
weddings. 

Turner  of  Northlade  was  Arthur  Alec's  best  man,  and 
there  were  four  bridesmaids  dressed  in  ])ink — Maudie  Vine, 
Gertrude  Prickett,  Maggie  Southland  and  Ivy  Cobb.  They 
carried  bouquets  of  roses  with  lots  of  spirea,  and  wore 
golden  hearts,  "the  gift  of  the  bridegroom."  Altogether  the 
brilliance  of  the  comi)any  made  up  for  the  deficiencies  of  its 
barn-like  setting  and  the  ineffectiveness  of  Mr.  Pratt,  who, 
discomposed  by  tiie  enveloping  presence  of  Joanna,  blun- 
dered more  hopelessly  than  ever,  so  that,  as  Joanna  said 


188  JOANNA    GODDEN 

afterwards,  she  was  glad  when  it  was  all  finished  without 
anyone  getting  married  besides  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 

After  the  cereniony  there  was  a  breakfast  at  Ansdore, 
with  a  wedding-cake  and  ices  and  champagne,  and  waiters 
hired  from  the  George  Hotel  at  Rye.  Ellen  stood  at  the 
end  of  the  room  shaking  hands  with  a  long  procession  of 
Pricketts,  Vines,  Furneses,  Southlands,  Bateses,  Turners, 
Cobbs.  .  .  .  She  looked  a  little  tired  and  droopy,  for  she  had 
had  a  trying  day,  with  Joanna  fussing  and  fighting  her  ever 
since  six  in  the  morning;  and  now  she  felt  resentfully  that 
her  sister  had  snatched  the  splendours  of  the  occasion  from 
her  to  herself — it  did  not  seem  right  that  Joanna  should 
be  the  most  glowing,  conspicuous,  triumphant  object  in  the 
room,  and  Ellen,  unable  to  protest,  sulked  languishingly. 

However,  if  the  bride  did  not  seem  as  proud  and  happy 
as  she  might,  the  bridegroom  made  up  for  it.  There  was 
something  almost  spiritual  in  the  look  of  Arthur  Alce's  eyes, 
as  he  stood  beside  Ellen,  his  arm  held  stiffly  for  the  repose 
of  hers,  his  great  choker  collar  scraping  his  chin,  lilies  of 
the  valley  and  camellias  sprouting  from  his  buttonhole,  a 
pair  of  lemon  kid  gloves — split  at  the  first  attempt,  so  he 
could  only  hold  them — clutched  in  his  moist  hand.  He 
looked  devout,  exalted,  as  he  armed  his  little  bride  and 
watched  her  sister. 

"Arthur  Alee  looks  pleased  enough,"  said  Furnese  to  Mrs. 
Bates — "reckon  he  sees  he's  got  the  best  of  the  family." 

"Maybe  he's  thankful  now  that  Joanna  wouldn't  take 
him." 

Neither  of  them  noticed  that  the  glow  was  in  Alce's  eyes 
chiefly  when  they  rested  on  Joanna. 

He  knew  that  today  he  had  pleased  her  better  than  he  had 
ever  pleased  her  before.  Today  she  had  said  to  him  "God 
bless  you,  Arthur — you're  the  best  friend  I  have,  or  am  like 
to  have,  neither."  Today  he  had  made  himself  her  kins- 
man, with  a  dozen  new  opportunities  of  service.  Chief 
among  these  was  the  dear  little  girl  on  his  arm — how  pretty 
and  sweet  she  was!    How  he  would  love  her  and  cherish 


JOANNA   GODDEN  189 

her  as  he  had  promised  Mr.  Pratt !  Well,  thank  God,  he 
had  done  Joanna  one  good  turn,  and  himself  not  such  a  bad 
one,  neither.  How  clever  she  had  been  to  think  of  his 
marrying  Ellen !  He  would  never  have  thought  of  it  him- 
self;  yet  he  now  saw  clearly  that  it  was  a  wonderful  notion 
— nothing  could  be  better.  Joanna  was  valiant  for  notions 
.  .  .  Alee  had  had  one  glass  of  champagne. 

At  about  four  o'clock,  Joanna  dashed  into  the  circle 
round  the  bride,  and  took  Ellen  away  upstairs,  to  put  on 
her  travelling  dress  of  saxe-blue  satin — the  last  humiliation 
she  would  have  to  endure  from  Ansdore.  The  honeymoon 
was  being  spent  at  Canterbury,  cautiously  chosen  by  Arthur 
as  a  place  he'd  been  to  once  and  so  knew  the  lie  of  a  bit. 
Ellen  had  wanted  to  go  to  Wales,  or  to  the  Lakes,  but 
Joanna  had  sternly  forbidden  such  outrageous  pinings — 
"Arthur's  got  two  cows  calving  next  week — what  are  you 
thinking  of,  Ellen  Godden?" 

The  bridal  couple  drove  away  amidst  much  hilarity,  in- 
spired by  unaccustomed  champagne  and  expressed  in  rice 
and  confetti.  After  they  had  gone,  the  guests  still  lingered, 
feasting  at  the  littered  tables,  or  re-inspecting  and  re-valu- 
ing the  presents  which  had  been  laid  out,  after  the  best 
style,  in  the  dining-room.  Sir  Harry  Trevor  had  sent  Ellen 
a  little  pearl  pendant,  though  he  had  been  unable  to  accept 
Joanna's  invitation  and  come  to  the  wedding  himself — he 
wrote  from  a  London  address  and  hinted  vaguely  that  he 
might  never  come  back  to  North  Farthing  House,  which  had 
been  let  furnished.  His  gift  was  the  chief  centre  of  interest 
— when  Mrs.  Vine  had  done  comparing  her  elect ro-i)lated 
cruet  most  favorably  with  the  one  presented  by  Mrs.  Fur- 
nese  and  the  ignoble  china  object  that  Mrs.  Cobb  had  h,ul 
the  meanness  to  send,  and  Mrs.  Bates  had  recovered  from 
the  shock  of  finding  that  her  tea-cosy  was  the  exact  same 
shape  and  pattern  as  the  one  given  by  Mrs.  Gain.  People 
thought  it  odfl  that  the  C^Id  Squire  should  send  pearls  to 
Ellen  Godden — something  for  the  table  would  have  been 
much  more  seemly. 


190  JOANNA   GODDEN 

Joanna  had  grown  weary — her  shoulders  drooped  under 
her  golden  gown,  she  tossed  back  her  head  and  yawned 
against  the  back  of  her  hand.  She  was  tired  of  it  all,  and 
wanted  them  to  go.  "What  were  they  staying  for?  They 
must  know  the  price  of  everything  pretty  well  by  this  time 
and  have  eaten  enough  to  save  their  suppers.  She  was  no 
polished  hostess,  concealing  her  boredom,  and  the  company 
began  soon  to  melt  away.  Traps  lurched  over  the  shingle 
of  Ansdore's  drive,  the  Pricketts  walked  off  across  the 
innings  to  Great  Ansdore,  guests  from  Rye  packed  into 
two  hired  wagonettes,  and  the  cousins  from  the  Isle  of 
Wight  drove  back  to  the  George,  where,  as  there  were 
eight  of  them  and  they  refused  to  be  separated,  Joanna  was 
munificently  entertaining  them  instead  of  under  her  own 
roof. 

When  the  last  was  gone,  she  turned  back  into  the  house, 
where  Mrs.  Tolhurst  stood  ready  with  her  broom  to  begin 
an  immediate  sweep-up  after  the  waiters,  whom  she  looked 
upon  as  the  chief  source  of  the  disorder.  A  queer  feeling 
came  over  Joanna,  a  feeling  of  loneliness,  of  craving,  and 
she  fell  in  all  her  glory  of  feathers  and  silk  upon  Mrs. 
Tolhurst's  alpaca  bosom.  Gone  were  those  arbitrary  and 
often  doubtful  distinctions  between  them,  and  the  mistress 
enjoyed  the  luxury  of  a  good  cry  in  her  servant's  arms. 

§  18 

Ellen's  marriage  broke  into  Joanna's  life  quite  as  dev- 
astatingly  as  Martin's  death.  Though  for  more  than  three 
years  her  sister  had  been  away  at  school,  with  an  ever- 
widening  gulf  of  temperament  between  herself  and  the 
farm,  and  though  since  her  return  she  had  been  little  better 
at  times  than  a  rebellious  and  sulky  stranger,  nevertheless 
she  was  a  part  of  Ansdore,  a  part  of  Joanna's  life  there,  and 
the  elder  sister  found  it  difficult  to  adjust  things  to  her 
absence. 

Of  course  Ellen  had  not  gone  very  far — Donkey  Street 


JOANNA   GODDEN  191 

was  not  five  miles  from  Ansdore,  though  in  a  different 
parish  and  a  different  county.  But  the  chasm  between  them 
was  enormous — it  was  queer  to  think  that  a  mere  change 
of  roof-tree  could  niake  such  a  difference.  No  doubt  the 
reason  was  that  with  Ellen  it  had  involved  an  entire  change 
of  habit.  While  she  lived  with  Joanna,  she  had  been  bound 
both  by  the  peculiarities  of  her  sister's  nature,  and  her  own, 
to  accept  her  way  of  living.  She  had  submitted,  not  be- 
cause she  was  weak  or  gentle-minded  but  because  submis- 
sion was  an  effective  weapon  of  her  warfare;  now,  having 
no  further  use  for  it,  she  ruled  instead  and  was  another 
person.  She  was,  besides,  a  married  woman,  and  the  fact 
made  all  the  difference  to  Ellen  herself.  She  felt  herself 
immeasurably  older  and  wiser  than  Joanna,  her  teacher 
and  tyrant.  Her  sister's  life  seemed  to  be  puerile.  .  .  . 
Ellen  had  at  last  read  the  riddle  of  the  universe  and  the 
secret  of  wisdom. 

The  sisters'  relations  were  also  a  little  strained  over 
Arthur  Alee.  Joanna  resented  the  authority  that  Ellen 
assumed — it  took  some  time  to  show  her  that  Arthur  was 
no  longer  hers.  She  objected  when  Ellen  made  him  shave 
off  his  moustache  and  whiskers ;  he  looked  ten  years  young- 
er and  a  far  handsomer  man,  but  he  was  no  longer  the 
traditional  Arthur  Alee  of  Joanna's  history,  and  she  resent- 
ed it.  Ellen  on  her  part  resented  the  way  Joanna  still  made 
use  of  him,  sending  him  to  run  errands  and  make  enquiries 
for  her  just  as  she  used  in  the  old  days  before  his  marriage. 
"Arthur,  I  hear  there's  sonic  g<x)d  pigs  going  at  Honeychild 
auction — I  can't  miss  market  at  Lydd.  but  you  might  call 
around  and  have  a  look  for  me."  Or  "Arthur,  I've  a  look- 
er's boy  coming  from  Abbot's  Court — you  might  go  there 
for  his  characters,  I  haven't  time,  with  the  butter  making 
today  and  Mcne  Tekel  such  an  owl." 

Ellen  rebelled  at  seeing  her  husband  ordered  about,  and 
more  than  once  "told  off"  her  sister,  but  Joanna  had  no 
intention  of  abandoning  her  just  claims  on  Arthur,  and  the 
man  himself  was  pig-headed — "I  mun  do  what   I  can   for 


192  JOANNA    GODDEN 

her,  just  as  I  used."  Ellen  could  make  him  shave  off  his 
whiskers,  she  could  even  make  him  on  occasion  young  and 
fond  and  frolicsome,  but  she  could  not  make  him  stop  serv- 
ing Joanna,  or,  had  she  only  known  it,  stop  loving  her. 
Arthur  was  perfectly  happy  as  Ellen's  husband,  and  made 
her,  as  Joanna  had  foretold,  an  exemplary  one,  but  his  love 
for  Joanna  seemed  to  grow  rather  than  diminish  as  he  cared 
for  and  worked  for  and  protected  her  sister.  It  seemed  to 
feed  and  thrive  on  his  love  for  Ellen — it  gave  him  a  won- 
derful sense  of  action  and  effectiveness,  and  people  said 
what  a  lot  of  good  marriage  had  done  Arthur  Alee,  and 
that  he  was  no  longer  the  dull  chap  he  used  to  be. 

§  19 

It  had  done  Ellen  a  lot  of  good  too.  During  the  next 
year  she  blossomed  and  expanded.  She  lost  some  of  her 
white  looks.  The  state  of  marriage  suited  her  thoroughly 
well.  Being  her  own  mistress  and  at  the  same  time  having 
a  man  to  take  care  of  her,  having  an  important  and  com- 
fortable house  of  her  own,  ordering  about  her  own  servants 
and  spending  her  husband's  money,  such  things  made  her 
life  pleasant,  and  checked  the  growth  of  peevishness  that 
had  budded  at  Ansdore. 

During  the  first  months  of  her  marriage,  Joanna  went 
fairly  often  to  see  her,  one  reason  being  the  ache  which 
Ellen's  absence  had  left  in  her  heart — she  wanted  to  see 
her  sister,  sit  with  her,  hear  her  news.  Another  was  the 
feeling  that  Ellen,  a  beginner  in  the  ways  of  life  and  house- 
hold management,  still  needed  her  help  and  guidance. 
Ellen  soon  undeceived  her  on  this  point.  "I  really  know 
hoA^  to  manage  my  own  house,  Joanna,"  she  said  once  or 
twice  when  the  other  commented  and  advised,  and  Joanna 
had  been  unable  to  enforce  her  ideas,  owing  to  the  fact  that 
she  seldom  saw  Ellen  above  once  or  twice  a  week.  Her 
sister  could  do  what  she  liked  in  her  absence,  and  it  was 
extraordinary  how  definite  and  cocksure  the  girl  was  about 


JOANNA    GODDEN  193 

things  she  should  have  approached  in  the  spirit  of  meek- 
ness and  dependence  on  her  elders. 

"I  count  my  linen  after  it  is  aired — it  comes  in  at  such 
an  inconvenient  time  that  I  can't  attend  to  it  then.  The 
^irls  can  easily  hang  it  out  on  the  horse — really,  Joanna,  one 
must  trust  people  to  do  something." 

"Well,  then,  don't  blame  me  when  you're  a  pillow-case 
short." 

"I  certainly  shan't  blame  you,"  said  Ellen  coolly 

Joanna  felt  put  out  and  injured.  It  hurt  her  to  see  that 
Ellen  did  not  want  her  supervision — she  had  looked  forward 
to  managing  Donkey  Street  as  well  as  Ansdore.  She  tried 
to  get  a  hold  on  Ellen  through  Arthur  Alee.  "Arthur,  it's 
your  duty  to  see  Ellen  don't  leave  the  bread-making  to  that 
cook-gal  of  hers.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  notion — her 
laying  on  the  sofa  while  the  gal  wastes  coal  and  flour."  .  .  . 
"Arthur,  Ellen  needs  a  new  churn — let  her  get  a  Wallis. 
It's  a  shame  for  her  to  be  buying  new  cushions  when  her 
churn's  an  old  butter-spoiler  I  wouldn't  use  if  I  was  dead — 
Arthur,  you're  there  with  her,  and  you  can  make  her  do 
what  I  say." 

But  Arthur  could  not,  any  more  than  Joanna,  make  Ellen 
do  what  she  did  not  want.  He  had  always  been  a  mild- 
mannered  man,  and  he  foimd  Ellen,  in  her  different  way, 
quite  as  difficult  to  stand  up  to  as  her  sister. 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  Jo  meddling  with  my  affairs," 
she  would  say  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

§  20 

Another  thing  that  worried  Joanna  was  the  fact  that  the 
passing  year  brought  no  expectations  to  Donkey  Street. 
One  of  her  haj)picst  anticipations  in  connection  with  Ellen's 
marriage  was  her  having  a  dear  little  baby  whom  Joanna 
could  hug  and  spoil  anrl  teach.  Perhaps  it  would  he  a  little 
girl,  and  she  would  feel  like  having  Ellen  ovct  again. 

She   was   bitterly   disappointed   when   Ellen   showed   no 


If 


194  JOANNA   GODDEN 

signs  of  obliging  her  quickly,  and  indeed  quite  shocked  by 
her  sister's  expressed  indifference  on  the  matter. 

"I  don't  care  about  children,  Jo,  and  I'm  over  young  to 
have  one  of  my  own." 

"Young!  You're  rising  tv^^enty,  and  Mother  was  but 
eighteen  when  I  was  born." 

"Well,  anyhow,  I  don't  see  why  I  should  have  a  child 
just  because  you  want  one." 

"I  don't  want  one.  For  shame  to  say  such  things,  Ellen 
Alee." 

"You  want  me  to  have  one  then,  for  your  benefit." 

"Don't  you  want  one  yourself?" 

*No — not  now.     I've  told  you  I  don't  care  for  children," 

'Then  you  should  ought  to !  Dear  little  mites ! — It's  a 
shame  to  talk  like  that.  Oh,  what  wouldn't  I  give,  Ellen,  to 
have  a  child  of  yours  in  my  arms." 

"Why  don't  you  marry  and  have  one  of  your  own?" 

Joanna  coloured. 

"I  don't  want  to  marry." 

"But  you  ought  to  marry  if  that's  how  you  feel.  Why 
don't  you  take  a  decent  fellow  like,  say,  Sam  Turner,  even 
if  you  don't  love  him,  just  so  that  you  may  have  a  child 
of  your  own?  You're  getting  on,  you  know,  Joanna — 
nearly  thirty-four — you  haven't  much  time  to  waste." 

"Well,  it  ain't  my  fault,"  said  Joanna  tearfully,  "that  I 
couldn't  marry  the  man  I  wanted  to.  I'd  have  been  mar- 
ried more'n  five  year  now  if  he  hadn't  been  took.  And  it's 
sorter  spoiled  the  taste  for  me,  as  you  might  say.  I  don't 
feel  inclined  to  get  married — it  don't  take  my  fancy,  and 
I  don't  see  how  I'm  ever  going  to  bring  myself  to  do  it. 
That's  why  it  ud  be  so  fine  for  me  if  you  had  a  little  one, 
Ellen — as  I  could  hold  and  kiss  and  care  for  and  feel  just 
as  if  it  was  my  own." 

"Thanks,"  said  Ellen. 


JOANNA   GODDEN  195 

§  21 

The  winding  up  of  her  plans  for  her  sister  made  it  neces- 
sary that  Joanna  should  cast  about  for  fresh  schemes  to 
absorb  her  energies.  The  farm  came  to  her  rescue  in  this 
fresh,  more  subtle  collapse,  and  she  turned  to  it  as  vigorous- 
ly as  she  had  turned  after  Martin's  death,  and  with  an  in- 
crease of  that  vague  feeling  of  bitterness  which  had  salted 
her  relations  with  it  ever  since. 

A  strong  rumour  was  blowing  on  the  marsh  that  shortly 
Great  Ansdore  would  come  into  the  market,  Joanna's 
schemes  at  once  were  given  their  focus.  She  would  buy 
Great  Ansdore  if  she  had  the  chance.  She  had  always 
resented  its  presence,  so  inaptly  named,  on  the  fringe  of 
Little  Ansdore's  greatness.  If  she  bought  it,  she  would 
not  be  adding  more  than  fifty  acres  to  her  own,  but  it  was 
good  land — Prickett  was  a  fool  not  to  have  made  more  of  it 
— and  the  possession  carried  with  it  manorial  rights,  in- 
cluding the  presentation  of  the  living  of  Brodnyx  with 
Pedlinge.  When  Joanna  owned  Great  Ansdore  in  addition 
to  her  own  thriving  and  established  patrimony,  she  would 
be  a  big  personage  on  the  Three  Marshes,  almost  "county." 
No  tenant  or  yeoman  from  Dynchurch  to  Winchelsea,  from 
Romncy  to  the  coast,  would  dare  withhold  his  respect — she 
might  even  at  last  be  admitted  a  member  of  the  Farmer's 
Club.  .  .  . 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that,  with  this  purchase  in 
view,  she  made  no  efforts  to  save  money.  She  set  to  make 
it  instead,  and  her  money-making  was  all  of  the  developing, 
adventurous  kind — she  ploughed  more  grass,  and  decided 
to  keep  three  times  the  number  of  cows  and  open  a  milk- 
round. 

As  a  general  practice,  only  a  few  cows  were  kept  on  the 
marsh  farms,  for,  owing  to  the  .shallowness  of  the  dykes,  it 
was  difficult  to  prevent  them  straying.  However,  Joanna 
boldly  decided  to  fence  all  the  Further  Innings.  She  could 
spare  that  amount  of  grazing,  and  though  she  would  have 


196  JOANNA    GODDEN 

to  keep  down  the  numbers  of  her  sheep  till  after  she  had 
bought  Great  Ansdore,  she  expected  to  make  more  money 
out  of  the  milk  and  dairy  produce — she  might  even  in  time 
open  a  dairy  business  in  Rye.  This  would  involve  the 
engaging  of  an  extra  girl  for  the  dairy  and  chickens,  and 
an  extra  man  to  help  Broadhurst  with  the  cows,  but  Joanna 
was  undaunted.  She  enjoyed  a  gamble,  when  it  was  not 
merely  a  question  of  luck,  but  also  in  part  a  matter  of  re- 
source and  planning  and  hard  driving  pace. 

"There's  Joanna  Godden  saving  her  tin  to  buy  Great 
Ansdore,"  said  Bates  of  Picknye  Bush  to  Cobb  of  Slinches, 
as  they  watched  her  choosing  her  shorthorns  at  Romney. 
She  had  Arthur  Alee  beside  her,  and  he  was,  as  in  the  be- 
ginning, trying  to  persuade  her  to  be  a  little  smaller  in  her 
ideas,  but,  as  in  the  beginning,  she  would  not  listen. 

"Setting  up  cow-keeping  now,  is  she? — Will  she  make  as 
much  a  valiant  wonder  of  that  as  she  did  with  her  sheep? 
Ha !  Ha !" 

"Ha !  Ha !"  The  two  men  laughed  and  winked  and 
rubbed  their  noses,  for  they  liked  to  remember  the  doleful 
tale  of  Joanna's  first  adventure  at  Ansdore;  it  made  them 
able  to  survey  more  equably  her  steady  rise  in  glory  ever 
since. 

It  was  obvious  to  Walland  Marsh  that,  on  the  whole,  her 
big  ideas  had  succeeded  where  the  smaller,  more  cautious 
ones  of  her  neighbours  had  failed.  Of  course  she  had  been 
lucky — luckier  than  she  deserved — but  she  was  beginning 
to  make  men  wonder  if  after  all  there  wasn't  policy  in 
paying  a  big  price  for  a  good  thing,  rather  than  in  obeying 
the  rules  of  haggle  which  maintained  on  other  farms.  Ans- 
dore certainly  spent  half  as  much  again  as  Birdskitchen  or 
Beggar's  Bush  or  Mislcham  or  Yokes  Court,  but  then  it 
had  nearly  twice  as  much  to  show  for  it.  Joanna  was  not 
the  woman  who  would  fail  to  keep  pace  with  her  own  pros- 
perity— her  swelling  credit  was  not  recorded  merely  in  her 
pass-book ;  it  was  visible,  indeed  dazzling,  to  every  eye. 

She  had  bought  a  new  trap  and  mare — a  very  smart  turn- 


JOANNA   GODDEN  197 

out,  with  rubber  tires  and  chocolate-coloured  upholstery, 
while  the  mare  herself  had  blood  in  her,  and  a  bit  of  the 
devil  too,  and  upset  the  sleepy,  chumbling  rows  of  farmers' 
horses  waiting  for  their  owners  in  the  streets  of  Lydd  or 
Rye.  Old  Stuppeny  had  died  in  the  winter  following 
Ellen's  marriage,  and  had  been  lavishly  buried,  with  a  tomb- 
stone, and  an  obituary  notice  in  the  Rye  Observer,  at 
Joanna's  expense.  In  his  place  she  had  now  one  of  those 
good-looking,  rather  saucy-eyed  young  men,  whom  she  liked 
to  have  about  her  in  a  menial  capacity.  He  wore  a  choco- 
late-coloured livery  made  by  a  tailor  in  Alarlingate,  and 
sat  on  the  seat  behind  Joanna  with  his  arms  folded  across 
his  chest,  as  she  spanked  along  the  Straight  Mile. 

Joanna  was  now  thirty-three  years  old,  and  in  some  ways 
looked  older  than  her  age,  in  others  younger.  Her  skin, 
richly  weather-beaten  into  reds  and  browns,  and  her  strong, 
well-developed  figure  in  its  old-fashioned  stays,  made  her 
look  older  than  her  eyes,  which  had  an  expectant,  childish 
gravity  in  their  brightness,  and  than  her  mouth,  which  was 
still  a  young  woman's  mouth,  large,  eager,  full-lipped,  with 
strong  little  white  teeth.  Her  hair  was  beautiful — it  had 
no  sleekness,  but,  even  in  its  coils,  looked  rough  and  abun- 
dant, and  it  had  the  same  rich,  apple-red  colours  in  it  as  her 
skin. 

She  still  had  plenty  of  admirers,  for  the  years  had  made 
her  more  rather  than  less  desirable  in  herself,  and  men  had 
grown  used  to  her  independence  among  them.  Moreover, 
she  was  a  "catch,"  a  maid  with  money,  and  this  may  have 
influenced  the  decorous,  well-considered  offers  she  had 
about  this  time  from  farmers  inland  as  well  as  on  the  Marsh. 
She  refused  them  decidedly — nevertheless,  it  was  obvious 
that  she  was  well-plcascfl  to  have  been  asked;  these  solid, 
estimable  proposals  testified  to  a  quality  in  her  life  which 
had  not  been  there  before. 

Yes — she  had  done  well  for  herself  on  the  whole,  she 
thought.  Looking  back  over  her  life,  over  the  ten  years 
she  had  ruled  at  y\nsdore,  she  .saw  success  consistently  re- 


198  JOANNA    GODDEN 

warding  hard  work  and  high  ambition.  She  saw,  too, 
strange  gaps — parts  of  the  road  which  had  grown  dim  in 
her  memory,  parts  where  probably  there  had  been  a  turning, 
where  she  might  have  left  this  well-laid,  direct  and  beaten 
highway  for  more  romantic  field-paths.  It  was  queer,  when 
she  came  to  think  of  it,  that  nothing  in  her  life  had  been 
really  successful  except  Ansdore,  that  directly  she  had 
turned  off  her  high-road  she  had  become  at  once  as  it  were 
bogged  and  lantern-led.  Socknersh  .  .  ,  Martin  .  .  .  Ellen 
.  .  .  there  had  been  bye-ways,  dim  paths  leading  into  queer 
unknown  fields,  a  strange  beautiful  land,  which  now  she 
would  never  know. 

§  22 

Ellen  watched  her  sister's  thriving.  "She's  almost  a 
lady,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  it's  wasted  on  her."  She 
was  inclined  to  be  dissatisfied  with  her  own  position  in  local 
society.  When  she  had  first  married,  she  had  not  thought 
it  would  be  difficult  to  get  herself  accepted  as  "county"  in 
the  new  neighbourhood,  but  she  had  soon  discovered  that 
she  had  had  far  more  consequence  as  Joanna  Godden's  sis- 
ter than  she  would  ever  have  as  Arthur  Alce's  wife.  Even 
in  those  days  Little  Ansdore  had  been  a  farm  of  the  first 
importance,  and  Joanna  was  at  least  notorious  where  she 
was  not  celebrated;  but  Donkey  Street  held  comparatively 
humble  rank  in  a  district  overshadowed  by  Dungemarsh 
Court,  and  Arthur  was  not  the  man  to  push  himself  into 
consideration,  though  Ellen  had  agreed  that  half  her  mar- 
riage portion  should  be  spent  on  the  improvement  of  his 
farm. 

No  one  of  any  consequence  had  called  upon  her,  though 
her  drawing-room,  with  its  black  cushions  and  Watts  pic- 
tures, was  more  fit  to  receive  the  well-born  and  well-bred 
than  Joanna's  disgraceful  parlour  of  oleographs  and 
aspidestras  and  stuffed  owls.  The  Parson  had  "visited" 
Mrs.  Alee  a  few  weeks  after  her  arrival,  but  a  "visit"  is 


JOANNA    GODDEN  199 

not  a  call,  and  when  at  the  end  of  three  months  his  wife  still 
ignored  her  existence,  Ellen  made  Arthur  come  over  with 
her  to  Brodnyx  and  Pedlinge  on  the  Sundays  she  felt  in- 
clined to  go  to  church,  saying  that  she  did  not  care  for  their 
ways  at  Romney,  where  they  had  a  lot  of  ceremonial  canter- 
ing round  the  alms-dish. 

It  was  bitter  for  her  to  have  to  watch  Joanna's  steady  rise 
in  importance — the  only  respect  in  which  she  felt  bitter 
towards  her  sister,  since  it  was  the  only  respect  in  which 
she  felt  inferior  to  her.  After  a  time,  Joanna  discovered 
this.  At  first  she  had  enjoyed  pouring  out  her  triumphs  to 
Ellen  on  her  visits  to  Donkey  Street,  or  on  the  rarer  occa- 
sions when  Ellen  visited  Ansdore. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I'm  going  to 
give  a  dinner  party — a  late-dinner  party.  I  shall  ask  the 
people  to  come  at  seven,  and  then  not  have  dinner  till  the 
quarter,  so  as  there'll  be  no  chance  of  the  food  being  kept 
waiting.  I  shall  have  soup  and  meat  and  a  pudding,  and 
wine  to  drink." 

"Who  are  you  going  to  invite?"  asked  Ellen,  with  a  curl 
of  her  lip. 

"Why,  didn't  I  tell  you?  Sir  Harry  Trevor's  coming 
back  to  North  Farthing  next  month.  Mrs.  Tolhurst  got  it 
from  Peter  Crouch,  who  had  it  from  the  Woolpack  yester- 
day. He's  coming  down  with  his  married  sister,  Mrs. 
Williams,  and  I'll  ask  Mr.  Pratt,  so  as  there'll  be  two  gentle- 
men and  two  ladies.  I'd  ask  you,  Ellen,  only  I  know 
Arthur  hasn't  got  an  evening  suit.'* 

"Thanks,  I  don't  care  about  dinner-parties.  Who's  i.'^oing 
to  do  your  waiting?" 

"Mene  Tekel.  She's  going  to  wear  a  cap,  and  stand  in 
the  room  all  the  time." 

"I  hope  that  you'll  be  able  to  hear  yourselves  talk  through 
her  breathing." 

It  struck  Joanna  that  Ellen  was  not  very  cordial. 

"I  believe  you  want  to  come,"  she  said,  "and  I  tell  you. 
duckie,   I'll  try  and  manage   it.        It  doesn't  matter  about 


200  JOANNA    GODDEN 

Arthur  not  having  proper  clothes — I'll  put  'evening  dress 
optional'  on  the  invitations." 

"I  shouldn't  do  that,"  said  Ellen,  and  laughed  in  a  way 
that  made  Joanna  feel  uncomfortable.  "I  really  don't  want 
to  come  in  the  least — it  would  be  very  dreary  driving  to  and 
fro." 

"Then  what's  the  matter,  dearie?" 

"Matter  ?     There's  nothing  the  matter." 

But  Joanna  knew  that  Ellen  felt  sore,  and  failing  to  dis- 
cover the  reason  herself  at  last  applied  to  Arthur  Alee. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Arthur,  "it's  because  she's  only  a 
farmer's  wife." 

"Why  should  that  upset  her  all  of  a  sudden?" 

"Well,  folks  don't  give  her  the  consequence  she'd  like; 
and  now  she  sees  you  having  gentry  at  your  table.  .  .  ." 

"I'd  have  had  her  at  it  too,  only  she  didn't  want  to  come, 
and  you  haven't  got  the  proper  clothes,  Arthur;  if  you  take 
my  advice,  you'll  go  into  Lydd  this  very  day  and  buy  your- 
self an  evening  suit." 

"Ellen  won't  let  me.     She  says  I'd  look  a  clown  in  it." 

"Ellen's  getting  very  short.  What's  happened  to  her 
these  days?" 

"It's  only  that  she  likes  gentlefolk  and  is  fit  to  mix  with 
them;  and  after  all,  Jo,  I'm  nothing  but  a  pore  common 
man." 

"I  hope  you  don't  complain  of  her,  Arthur?" 

"Oh,  no — I've  no  complaints — don't  you  think  it.  And 
don't  you  go  saying  anything  to  her,  Jo." 

"Then  what  am  I  to  do  about  it?  I  won't  have  her 
troubling  you,  nor  herself,  neither.  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do — 
look  here  ! — I — I — "  Joanna  gave  a  loud  sacrificial  gulp — 
"I'll  make  it  middle-day  dinner  instead  of  late,  and  then  you 
won't  have  to  wear  evening  dress,  and  Ellen  can  come  and 
meet  the  old  Squire.  She  should  ought  to,  seeing  as  he 
gave  her  a  pearl  locket  when  she  was  married.  It  won't 
be  near  so  fine  as  having  it  in  the  evening,  but  I  don't  want 


JOANNA   GODDEN  201 

neither  her  nor  you  to  be  upset — and  I  can  always  call  it 
'lunch.'  ..." 

§  23 

As  the  result  of  Joanna's  self-denial,  Ellen  and  Arthur 
were  able  to  meet  Sir  Harry  Trevor  and  his  sister  at 
luncheon  at  Ansdore.  The  luncheon  did  not  differ  in  any 
respect  from  the  dinner  as  at  first  proposed.  There  was 
soup — much  to  Ellen's  annoyance,  as  Arthur  had  never  been 
able  to  master  the  etiquette  of  its  consumption — and  a  leg 
of  mutton  and  roast  fowls,  and  a  large  fig  pudding,  washed 
down  with  some  really  good  wine,  for  Joanna  had  asked 
the  wine-merchant  at  Rye  uncompromisingly  for  his  best — 
"I  don't  mind  what  I  pay  so  long  as  it's  that" — and  had 
been  served  accordingly.  Mene  Tekel  waited,  with  creak- 
ing stays  and  shoes,  and  loud  breaths  down  the  visitors' 
necks  as  she  thrust  vegetable  dishes  and  sauce-boats  at 
perilous  angles  over  their  shoulders, 

Ellen  provided  a  piquant  contrast  to  her  surroundings. 
As  she  sat  there  in  her  soft  grey  dress,  with  her  eyes  cast 
down  under  her  little  town  hat,  with  her  quiet  voice,  and 
languid,  noiseless  movements,  anything  more  unlike  the 
average  farmer's  wife  of  the  district  was  difficult  to  imagine. 
Joanna  felt  annoyed  with  her  for  dressing  up  all  quiet  as  a 
water-hen,  but  she  could  sec  that,  in  spite  of  it,  her  sacrifice 
in  having  her  party  transferred  from  the  glamorous  evening 
hour,  had  been  justified.  Both  the  old  Squire  and  his  sister 
were  obviously  interested  in  Ellen  Alee — he  in  the  naive 
unguarded  way  of  the  male,  she  more  subtly  and  not  with- 
out a  dash  of  patronage. 

Mrs.  Williams  always  took  an  interest  in  any  woman  she 
thought  downtrodden,  as  her  intuition  told  her  Ellen  was, 
by  that  coarse,  hairy  creature,  Arthur  Alee.  She  herself 
had  disposed  of  an  unsatisfactory  husband  with  great  de- 
cision and  resource,  and,  ju-rhaps  as  a  thank-offering,  had 
devoted  the  rrst  of  her  life  to  woman's  ematicipation.  She 
travelled  about   the    country    lecturing    for    a   well-known 


202  JOANNA   GODDEN 

suffrage  society,  and  was  bitterly  disappointed  in  Joanna 
Godden  because  she  expressed  herself  quite  satisfied  without 
the  vote. 

"But  don't  you  feel  it  humiliating  to  see  your  carter  and 
your  cowman  and  your  shepherd  boy  all  go  up  to  Rye  to 
vote  on  polling-day,  while  you,  who  own  this  farm.,  and 
have  such  a  stake  in  the  country,  aren't  allowed  to  do  so?" 

"It  only  means  as  I've  got  eight  votes  instead  of  one," 
said  Joanna,  "and  don't  have  the  trouble  of  going  to  the 
poll,  neither.  Not  one  of  my  men  would  dare  vote  but  as  I 
told  him,  so  reckon  I  do  better  than  most  at  the  elections." 

IMrs.  Williams  told  Joanna  that  it  was  such  opinions 
which  were  keeping  back  the  country  from  some  goal  un- 
specified. 

"Besides,  you  have  to  think  of  other  women,  Miss  Godden 
— other  women  who  aren't  so  fortunate  and  independent  as 
yourself." 

She  gave  a  long  glance  at  Ellen,  whose  downcast  eyelids 
flickered. 

"I  don't  care  about  other  women,"  said  Joanna,  "if  they 
won't  stand  up  for  themselves,  I  can't  help  them.  It's  easy 
enough  to  stand  up  to  a  man.  I  don't  think  much  of  men, 
neither.  I  like  'em,  but  I  can't  think  any  shakes  of  their 
doings.  That's  why  I'd  sooner  they  did  their  own  voting 
and  mine  too.  Now,  Mene  Tekel,  can't  you  see  the  Squire's 
ate  all  his  cabbage? — You  hand  him  the  dish  again — not 
under  his  chin — he  don't  want  to  eat  out  of  it — but  low 
down,  so  as  he  can  get  hold  of  the  spoon.  ,  .  ." 

Joanna  looked  upon  her  luncheon  party  as  a  great  success, 
and  her  pleasure  was  increased  by  the  fact  that  soon  after 
it  Sir  Harry  Trevor  and  his  sister  paid  a  ceremonial  call  on 
Ellen  at  Donkey  Street. 

"Now  she'll  be  pleased,"  thought  Joanna,  "it's  always 
what  she's  been  hankering  after — having  gentlefolk  call  on 
her  and  leave  their  cards.  It  ain't  my  fault  it  hasn't  hap- 
pened earlier.  .  .  .  I'm  unaccountable  glad  she  met  them 
at  my  house.     It'll  learn  her  to  think  prouder  of  me." 


JOANNA   GODDEN  203 

§  24 

That  Spring  and  Summer  Sir  Harry  Trevor  was  a  good 
deal  at  North  Farthing,  and  it  was  rumoured  on  the  marsh 
that  he  had  run  through  the  money  so  magnanimously  left 
him  and  had  been  driven  home  to  economise.  Joanna  did 
not  see  as  much  of  him  as  in  the  old  days — he  had  given  up 
his  attempts  at  farming,  and  had  let  ofif  all  the  North 
Farthing  land  except  the  actual  garden  and  paddock.  He 
came  to  see  her  once  or  twice,  and  she  went  about  as  rarely 
to  see  him.  It  struck  her  that  he  had  changed  in  many 
ways,  and  she  wondered  a  little  where  he  had  been  and 
what  he  had  done  during  the  last  four  years.  He  did  not 
look  any  older.  Some  queer  rather  unpleasant  lines  had 
traced  themselves  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth  and  eyes, 
but  strangely  enough,  though  they  added  to  his  character- 
istic air  of  humorous  sophistication,  they  also  added  to  his 
youth,  for  they  were  lines  of  desire,  of  feeling  .  .  .  perhaps 
in  his  four  years  of  absence  from  the  marsh  he  had  learned 
how  to  feel  at  last,  and  had  found  youth  instead  of  age 
in  the  commotions  which  feeling  brings.  Though  he  must 
be  fifty-five,  he  looked  scarcely  more  than  forty — and  he 
had  a  queer,  weak,  loose  emotional  air  about  him,  that  she 
found  it  hard  to  account  for. 

In  the  circumstances  she  did  not  press  invitations  upon 
him,  she  had  no  time  to  waste  on  men  who  did  not  appreci- 
ate her  as  a  woman — which  the  Scjuire,  in  spite  of  his 
susceptibility,  obviously  faik-rl  to  do.  I'rom  July  to  Sep- 
tember she  met  him  only  once,  and  that  was  at  Ellen's. 
Neither  did  she  see  very  much  of  Ellen  that  Summer — her 
life  was  too  full  of  hard  work,  as  a  substitute  for  economy. 

Curiously  enough  next  time  she  went  to  sec  her  sister 
Sir  Harry  was  there  again. 

"Ilullo !  I  always  seem  to  be  meeting  you  here,"  she  said 
— "and  nowhere  else — you  never  come  to  see  me  now." 

Sir  llarry  grinned. 

"You're  always  so  mortal  busy,  Jo — I'd  feel  in  your  way. 


204  JOANNA   GODDEN 

Now  this  little  woman  never  seems  to  have  much  to  do. 
You're  a  lazy  Httle  thing.  Ellen — I  don't  believe  you  ever 
move  off  the  sofa,  except  to  the  piano." 

Joanna  was  surprised  to  see  him  on  such  familiar  terms 
with  her  sister — "Ellen,"  indeed !  He'd  no  right  to  call  her 
that. 

"Mrs.  Alee  hasn't  nothing  beyond  her  housework  to  do — • 
and  any  woman  worth  her  keep  ull  get  shut  of  that  in  the 
morning.  Now  I've  got  everything  on  my  hands — and  I've 
no  good,  kind  Arthur  to  look  after  me  neither,"  and  Joanna 
beamed  on  Arthur  Alee  as  he  stirred  his  tea  at  the  end  of 
the  table. 

"And  jolly  thankful  you  are  that  you  haven't,"  said  the 
Squire.  "Own  up,  Joanna  and  say  that  the  last  thing  you'd 
want  in  life  would  be  someone  to  look  after  you." 

"Well,  it  strikes  me,"  said  Joanna,  "as  most  of  the  people 
I  meet  want  looking  after  themselves,  and  it  ud  be  justabout 
waste  for  any  of  'em  to  start  looking  after  me." 

Arthur  Alee  unexpectedly  murmured  something  that 
sounded  like  "Hear,  hear." 

When  Joanna  left,  he  brought  round  her  trap,  as  the 
saucy-eyed  young  groom  was  having  a  day  off  in  Rye. 

"How've  your  turnips  done?"  he  asked. 

"Not  so  good  as  last  year,  but  the  wurzels  are  fine." 

"Mine  might  be  doing  better," — he  stood  fumbling  with 
a  trace-buckle. 

"Has  that  come  loose?"  asked  Joanna. 

"Nun-no.     I  hope  your  little  lady  liked  her  oats." 

"She  looks  in  good  heart— watch  her  tugging.  You've 
undone  that  buckle,  Arthur." 

"So  I  have — I  was  just  fidgeting." 

He  fastened  the  strap  again,  his  fingers  moving  clumsily 
and  slowly.  It  struck  her  that  he  was  trying  to  gain  time, 
that  he  wanted  to  tell  her  something. 

"Anything  the  matter,  Arthur  ?" 

"Nothing— why  ?" 

"Oh,  it  struck  me  you  looked  worried." 


JOANNA   GODDEN  205 

"What  should  I  be  worried  about?" 

"There's  a  lot  of  things  you  might  be  worried  about. 
What  did  you  tell  me  about  your  wurzels?" 

"They're  not  so  bad." 

"Then  I  can't  see  as  there's  any  need  for  you  to  look 
glum." 

"No  more  there  ain't,"  said  Arthur  in  the  voice  of  a  man 
making  a  desperate  decision. 

§  25 

It  was  not  till  nearly  a  month  later  that  Joanna  heard 
that  people  were  "talking"  about  Ellen  and  Sir  Harry. 
Gossip  generally  took  some  time  to  reach  her,  owing  to  her 
sex,  which  was  not  privileged  to  frequent  the  Woolpack 
bar,  where  rumours  invariably  had  a  large  private  circula- 
tion before  they  were  finally  published  at  some  auction  or 
market.  She  resented  this  disability,  but  in  spite  of  the 
general  daring  of  her  outlook  and  behaviour,  nothing  would 
have  induced  her  to  enter  the  Woolpack  save  by  the  discreet 
door  of  the  landlady's  parlour,  where  she  occasionally 
sipped  a  glass  of  ale.  However,  she  had  means  of  acquir- 
ing knowledge,  though  not  so  quickly  as  those  women  who 
were  provided  with  husbands  and  sons.  On  this  occasion 
Mene  Tckel  Fagge  brought  the  news,  through  the  looker 
at  Slinches,  with  whom  she  was  walking  out. 

"That'll  do,  Mene,"  said  Joanna  to  her  handmaiden,  "you 
always  was  the  one  to  pick  up  idle  talcs,  and  Uansay  sIkwUI 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  drinking  and  talking  the 
way  he  docs.  Now  you  go  and  tell  Peter  Crouch  to  bring 
me  round  the  trap." 

She  drove  off  to  Donkey  Street,  carrying  her  scandal  to 
its  source.  She  was  extremely  angry — not  that  for  one 
moment  she  believed  in  the  truth  of  those  accusations 
brought  against  her  sister,  but  Ellen  was  just  the  sort  of 
girl,  with  her  airs  and  notions,  to  get  herself  talked  about 
at  the  Woolpack,  and  it  was  disgraceful  to  have  such  things 


206  JOANNA   GODDEN 

said  about  one,  even  if  one  was  guiltless.  There  was  a 
prickly  heat  of  shame  in  Joanna's  blood  as  she  hustled  the 
mare  over  the  white  loops  of  the  Romney  road. 

The  encounter  with  Ellen  made  her  angrier  still. 

"I  don't  care  what  they  say,"  said  her  sister,  "why  should 
I  mind  what  a  public-house  bar  says  against  me?" 

"Well,  you  should  ought  to  mind — it's  shameful." 

"They've  said  plenty  against  you," 

"Not  that  sort  of  thing." 

"I'd  rather  have  that  sort  of  thing  said  about  me  than 
some." 

"Ellen!" 

"Well,  the  Squire's  isn't  a  bad  name  to  have  coupled  with 
mine,  if  they  must  couple  somebody's." 

"I  wonder  you  ain't  afraid  of  being  struck  dead,  talking 
like  that — ^you  with  the  most  kind,  good-tempered  and  law- 
ful husband  that  ever  was." 

"Do  you  imagine  that  I'm  disloyal  to  Arthur?" 

"Howsumever  could  you  think  I'd  dream  of  such  a 
thing?" 

"Well,  it's  the  way  you're  talking." 

"It  ain't." 

"Then  why  are  you  angry?" 

"Because  you  shouldn't  ought  to  get  gossiped  about  like 
that." 

"It  isn't  my  fault." 

"It  is.  You  shouldn't  ought  to  have  Sir  Harry  about  the 
place  as  much  as  you  do.  The  last  two  times  I've  been 
here,  he's  been  too." 

"I  like  him — he  amuses  me." 

"I  like  him  too,  but  he  ain't  worth  nothing,  and  he's  got 
a  bad  name.  You  get  shut  of  him,  Ellen — I  know  him,  and 
I  know  a  bit  about  him;  he  ain't  the  sort  of  man  to  have 
coming  to  your  house  when  folks  are  talking." 

"You  have  him  to  yours — whenever  you  can  get  him." 

"But  then  I'm  a  single  woman,  and  he  being  a  single  man 
there's  no  harm  in  it." 


JOANNA   GODDEN  207 

"Do  you  think  a  married  woman  should  know  no  man 
but  her  husband?" 

"What  did  she  marry  a  husband  for  ?" 

"Really,  Joanna  ,  .  .  however,  there's  no  use  arguing 
with  you.  I'm  sorry  you're  annoyed  at  the  gossip,  but  to 
keep  out  of  the  gossip  here  one  would  have  to  live  like  a 
cabbage.     You  haven't  exactly  kept  out  of  it  yourself." 

"Have  done  do  with  telling  me  that.  They  only  talk 
about  me  because  I'm  more  go-ahead  than  any  of  'em,  and 
make  more  money.  Anyone  may  talk  about  you  that  way 
and  I  shan't  mind.  But  to  have  it  said  at  the  Woolpack 
as  you,  a  married  wife,  let's  a  man  like  Sir  Harry  be  forever 
hanging  around  your  house  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  jealous?"  said  Ellen  softly.  "Poor  old  Jo — I'm 
sorry  if  I've  taken  another  of  your  men." 

Joanna  opened  her  mouth  and  stared  at  her.  At  first  she 
hardly  understood,  then,  suddenly  grasping  what  was  in 
Ellen's  mind,  she  took  in  her  breath  for  a  torrential  explana- 
tion of  the  whole  matter.  But  the  next  minute  she  realised 
that  this  was  hardly  the  moment  to  say  anything  which 
would  prejudice  her  sister  against  Arthur  Alee.  If  Ellen 
would  value  him  more  as  a  robbery,  then  let  her  persist  in 
her  delusion.  The  effort  of  silence  was  so  great,  that 
Joanna  became  purjjle  and  ajKjpIcctic — with  a  wild,  grab- 
bing gesture  she  turned  away,  and  burst  out  of  the  house 
into  the  drive,  where  her  trap  was  waiting. 

§  26 

The  n(  xt  morning  Menc  Tckel  brought  fresh  news  from 
the  Woolpack,  and  this  time  it  was  of  a  difTercnt  quality, 
Warranted  to  allay  the  seething  of  Joanna's  moral  sense. 
Sir  Harry  Trevor  had  sold  North  I-'arthiiig  to  a  retired 
bootmaker.  He  was  going  to  the  South  of  France  for  the 
winter,  and  was  then  coming  back  to  his  sister's  flat  in  Lon- 
don, while  she  went  for  a  lecturing  tour  in  the  United 
States.     The  Woolpack  was  very  definitely  and  minutely 


208  JOANNA   GO.DDEN 

informed  as  to  his  doings,  and  had  built  its  knowledge  into 
the  theory  that  he  must  have  had  some  more  money  left 
him. 

Joanna  was  delighted — she  forgave  Sir  Harry,  and  Ellen 
too,  which  was  a  hard  matter.  None  the  less,  as  November 
approached  through  the  showers  and  floods,  she  felt  a  little 
anxious  lest  he  should  delay  his  going  or  perhaps  even  re- 
voke the  bootmaker  from  Deal,  with  two  van-loads  of  furni- 
ture, and  his  wife  and  four  grown-up  daughters — all  as  ugly 
as  roots,  said  the  Woolpack.  The  Squire's  furniture  was 
sold  by  auction  at  Dover,  from  which  port  his  sailing  was  in 
due  course  guaranteed  by  credible  eye-witnesses.  Joanna 
once  more  breathed  freely.  No  one  could  talk  about  him 
and  Ellen  now — that  disgraceful  scandal,  which  seemed  to 
lower  Ellen  to  the  level  of  marsh  dairy-girls  in  trouble,  and 
had  about  it  too  that  strange  luciferian  flavour  of  "the  sins 
of  Society,"  that  scandal  had  been  killed,  and  its  dead  body 
taken  away  in  the  Dover  mail. 

Now  that  he  was  gone,  and  no  longer  a  source  of  danger 
to  her  family's  reputation,  she  found  herself  liking  Sir 
Harry  again.  He  had  always  been  friendly,  and  though  she 
fundamentally  disapproved  of  his  "ways,"  she  was  woman 
enough  to  be  thrilled  by  his  lurid  reputation.  Moreover  he 
provided  a  link,  her  last  living  link,  with  Martin's  days — 
now  that  strange  women  kept  rabbits  in  the  backyards  of 
North  Farthing  and  the  rooms  were  full  of  the  Deal  boot- 
maker's resplendent  suites,  that  time  of  dew  and  gold  and 
dreams  seemed  to  have  faded  still  further  off.  For  many 
years  it  had  lain  far  away  on  the  horizon,  but  now  it 
seemed  to  have  faded  off  the  earth  altogether,  and  to  live 
only  in  the  sunset  sky  or  in  the  dim  moon-risings,  which 
sometimes  woke  her  out  of  her  sleep  with  a  start,  as  if  she 
slipped  on  the  verge  of  some  troubling  memory. 

This  kindlier  state  of  affairs  lasted  for  about  six  weeks, 
during  which  Joanna  saw  very  little  of  Ellen.  She  was  at 
rest  about  her  sister,  for  the  fact  that  Ellen  might  be  feeling 
lonely  and  unhappy  at  the  departure  of  her  friend  did  not 


JOANNA    GODDEN  209 

trouble  her  in  the  least;  such  emotions,  so  vile  in  their 
source,  could  not  call  for  any  sympathy.  Besides,  she  was 
busy,  hunting  for  a  new  carter  to  work  under  Broadhurst, 
whose  undertakings,  since  the  establishment  of  the  milk- 
round,  had  almost  come  to  equal  those  of  the  looker  in  activ- 
ity and  importance. 

She  was  just  about  to  set  out  one  morning  for  a  farm  near 
Brenzett,  when  she  saw  Arthur  Alee  come  up  to  the  door 
on  horseback. 

"Hullo,  Jo!"  he  called  rather  anxiously  through  the 
window,  "have  you  got  Ellen?" 

"I  ? — No.     Why  should  I  have  her,  pray  ?" 

"Because  I  ain't  got  her." 

"What  d'you  mean?  Get  down,  Arthur,  and  come  and 
talk  to  me  in  here.  Don't  let  everyone  hear  you  shouting 
like  that." 

Arthur  hitched  his  horse  to  the  paling  and  came  in. 

"I  thought  maybe  I'd  find  her  here,"  he  said,  "I  ain't  seen 
her  since  breakfast." 

"There's  other  places  she  could  have  gone  besides  here. 
Maybe  she's  gone  shopping  in  Romney  and  forgot  to  tell 
you." 

"It's  queer  her  starting  oft  like  that  without  a  word — 
and  she's  took  her  liddle  bag  and  a  few  bits  of  things  with 
her  too." 

"What  things? — Arthur!  Why  couldn't  you  tell  me  that 
before?" 

"I  was  going  to  .  .  .  I'm  feeling  a  bit  anxious,  Jo  .  .  . 
I've  a  feeling  she's  gone  after  that  old  Squire." 

"You  dare  say  such  a  thing!  Arthur,  I'm  ashamed  of 
you,  believing  such  a  thing  of  your  wife  and  my  sister." 

"Well,  she  was  unaccountable  set  on  him." 

"Nonsense!  He  just  amused  her.  It's  you  whose  wife 
she  is." 

"She's  scarce  given  me  a  word  more'n  in  the  way  of  busi- 
ness, as  you  might  say,  this  last  three  month.  And  she 
won't  let  me  touch  her." 


210  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  before?" 

"I  didn't  want  to  trouble  you,  and  I  thought  maybe  it  was 
a  private  matter." 

"You  should  have  ought  to  tell  me  the  drackly  minute 
Ellen  started  not  to  treat  you  proper.  I'd  have  spoken  to 
her  .  .  .  Now  we're  in  for  a  valiant  terrification." 

"I'm  unaccountable  sorry,  Jo." 

"How  long  has  she  been  gone  ?" 

"Since  around  nine.  I  went  out  to  see  the  tegs,  counting 
them  up  to  go  inland,  and  when  I  came  in  for  my  dinner  the 
gal  told  me  as  Ellen  had  gone  out  soon  after  breakfast,  and 
had  told  her  to  see  as  I  got  my  dinner,  as  she  wouldn't  be 
back." 

"Why  didn't  you  start  after  her  at  once  ?" 

"Well,  I  made  sure  as  she'd  gone  to  you.  Then  I  began 
to  think  over  things  and  put  'em  together,  and  I  found  she'd 
taken  her  liddle  bag,  and  I  got  scared.  I  never  liked  her 
seeing  such  a  lot  of  that  man." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  stop  it?" 

"How  could  I  ?" 

"I  could  have— and  the  way  people  talked  ...  I'd  have 
locked  her  up  sooner  than  .  .  .  well,  it's  too  late  now  .  .  . 
the  boat  went  at  twelve.  Oh,  Arthur,  why  didn't  you  watch 
her  properly?  Why  did  you  let  her  go  like  that?  Think 
of  it!  What's  to  become  of  her— away  in  foreign  parts 
with  a  man  who  ain't  her  husband  ...  my  liddle  Ellen 
...  oh,  it's  turble — turble — " 

Her  speech  suddenly  roughened  into  the  Doric  of  the 
Marsh,  and  she  sat  down  heavily,  dropping  her  head  to  her 
knees. 

"Joanna— don't,  don't  .  .  .  don't  take  on,  Jo." 

He  had  not  seen  her  cry  before,  and  now  she  frightened 
him.  Her  shoulders  heaved,  and  great  panting  sobs  shook 
her  broad  back. 

"My  liddle  Ellen  ...  my  treasure,  my  duckie  ...  oh, 
why  have  you  left  us?  .  .  .  You  could  have  come  back  to 


JOANNA    GODDEN  211 

me  if  you  didn't  like  it  .  .  .  oh,  Ellen,  where  are  you? 
.  .  .  Come  back  .  .  ." 

Arthur  stood  motionless  beside  her,  his  frame  rigid,  his 
protuberant  blue  eyes  staring  through  the  window  at  the 
horizon.  He  longed  to  take  Joanna  in  his  arms,  caress  and 
comfort  her,  but  he  knew  that  he  must  not. 

"Cheer  up,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  husky  voice,  "maybe  it 
ain't  so  bad  as  you  think.  Maybe  I'll  find  her  at  home 
when  I  get  back  to  Donkey  Street." 

"Not  if  she  took  her  bag.  Oh,  whatsumever  shall  we  do? 
— whatsumever  shall  we  do?" 

"We  can  but  wait.  If  she  don't  come  back,  maybe  she'll 
send  me  a  letter." 

"It  queers  me  how  you  can  speak  so  light  of  it." 

"I  speak  light?" 

"Yes.     You  don't  seem  to  tumble  to  it." 

"Reckon  I  do  tumble  to  it,  but  what  can  we  do  ?" 

"You  shouldn't  ought  to  have  left  her  alone  all  that  time 
from  breakfast  till  dinner — if  you'd  gone  after  her  at  the 
start  you  could  have  brought  her  back.  You  should  ought 
to  have  kicked  Sir  Harry  out  of  Donkey  Street  before  the 
start.  I'd  have  done  it  surely.  Reckon  I  love  Ellen  more'n 
you." 

"Reckon  you  do,  Jo.  I  tell  you,  I  ought  never  to  have 
married  her — since  it  was  you  I  cared  for  all  along." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Arthur.  I'm  ashamed  of  you  to 
choose  this  time  to  say  such  an  immoral  thing." 

"It  ain't  immoral— it's  the  truth." 

"Well,  it  shouldn't  ought  to  be  the  truth.  When  you 
married  Ellen,  you'd  no  btisiness  to  go  on  caring  for  me.  I 
guess  all  this  is  a  judgment  on  you,  caring  for  a  woman 
when  you'd  married  her  sister." 

"You  ain't  yourself,  Jo,"  said  Arthur  sadly,  "and  there's 
no  sense  argmng  with  you.  I'll  go  away  till  you've  got  over 
it.  Maybe  I'll  have  some  news  for  you  tomorrow  morn- 
mg. 


212  JOANNA   GODDEN 

§  27 

Tomorrow  morning  he  had  a  letter  from  Ellen  herself. 
He  brought  it  at  once  to  a  strangely  drooping  and  weary- 
eyed  Joanna,  and  read  it  again  over  her  shoulder. 

"Dear  Arthur,"  it  ran — 

"I'm  afraid  this  will  hurt  you  and  Joanna  terribly,  but  I 
expect  you  have  already  guessed  what  has  happened.  I  am 
on  my  way  to  San  Remo,  to  join  Sir  Harry  Trevor,  and  I 
am  never  coming  back,  because  I  know  now  that  I  ought  not 
to  have  married  you.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  and 
I'm  sure  Joanna  won't,  but  I  had  to  think  of  my  own  hap- 
piness, and  I  never  was  a  good  wife  to  you.  Believe  me,  I 
have  done  my  best — I  said  'Goodbye  for  ever'  to  Harry  six 
weeks  ago,  but  ever  since  then  my  life  has  been  one  long 
misery ;  I  cannot  live  without  him. 

"Ellen." 


t^^ 


'Well,  it's  only  told  us  what  we  knew  already,"  said 
Joanna  with  a  gulp,  "but  now  we're  sure  we  can  do  better 
than  just  talk  about  it." 

"What  can  we  do?" 

"We  can  get  the  old  Squire's  address  from  somebody — 
Mrs.  Williams  or  the  people  at  North  Farthing  House — 
and  then  send  a  telegram  after  her,  telling  her  to  come 
back." 

"That  won't  be  much  use." 

"It'll  be  something,  anyway.  Maybe  when  she  gets  out 
there  in  foreign  parts  she  won't  be  so  pleased — or  maybe  he 
never  asked  her  to  come  and  he'll  have  changed  his  mind 
about  her.  We  must  try  and  get  her  back.  Where  have 
you  told  your  folk  she's  gone  to  ?" 

"I've  told  'em  she's  gone  to  stop  with  you." 

"Well,  I  can't  pretend  she's  here.  You  might  have 
thought  of  something  better,  Arthur.'* 

"I  can't  think  of  nothing  else." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  213 

"You  justabout  try.  If  only  we  can  get  her  somewheres 
for  a  week,  so  as  to  have  time  to  write  and  tell  her  as  all 
will  be  forgiven  and  you'll  take  her  back  .  .  ." 

Arthur  looked  mutinous. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  want  her  back." 

"Arthur,  you  must.  Otherways,  everybody  ull  have  to 
know  what's  happened." 

"But  she  didn't  like  being  with  me,  or  she  wouldn't  have 
gone  away." 

"She  liked  it  well  enough,  or  she  wouldn't  have  stayed 
with  you  two  year.  Arthur,  you  must  have  her  back,  you 
justabout  must.  You  send  her  a  telegram  saying  as  you'll 
have  her  back  if  only  she'll  come  this  once,  before  folks 
find  out  where  she's  gone." 

Arthur's  resistance  gradually  failed  before  Joanna's  en- 
treaties and  persuasions.  He  could  not  withstand  Jo  when 
her  grey  eyes  were  all  dull  with  tears,  and  her  voice  was 
hoarse  and  frantic.  For  some  months  now  his  marriage 
had  seemed  to  him  a  wrong  and  immoral  thing,  but  he 
rather  sorrowfully  told  himself  that  having  made  the  first 
false  step  he  could  not  now  turn  round  and  come  back,  even 
if  Ellen  herself  had  broken  away.  He  rode  off  to  find  out 
the  Squire's  address  and  send  his  wife  the  summoning  and 
forgiving  telegram. 

§  28 

It  was  not  perhaps  surprising  that,  in  spite  of  a  lavish 
and  exceedingly  expensive  offer  of  forgiveness,  Ellen  did 
not  come  home.  Over  a  week  passed  without  even  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  telegram,  which  she  must  have 
found  reproachfully  awaiting  her  arrival — the  symbol  of 
Walland  Marsh  pursuing  her  into  the  remoteness  of  a  new 
life  and  a  strange  country. 

As  might  have  been  expected  Joanna  felt  this  period  of 
waiting  and  inactivity  far  more  than  she  had  felt  the  actual 
shock.  She  had  all  the  weight  on  her  shoulders  of  a  sus- 
tained deception.     She  and  Arthur  had  to  dress  up  a  story 


214  JOANNA   GODDEN 

to  deceive  the  neighbourhood,  and  they  gave  out  that  Ellen 
was  in  London,  staying  with  Mrs.  Williams — her  husband 
had  forbidden  her  to  go,  so  she  had  run  away,  and  now 
there  would  have  to  be  some  give  and  take  on  both  sides 
before  she  could  come  back.  Joanna  had  been  inspired 
to  circulate  this  legend  by  the  discovery  that  Ellen  actually 
had  taken  a  ticket  to  London.  She  had  probably  guessed 
the  sensation  that  her  taking  a  ticket  to  Dover  would  arouse 
at  the  local  station,  so  had  gone  first  to  London  and  travelled 
down  by  the  boat  express.  It  was  all  very  cunning,  and 
Joanna  thought  she  saw  the  old  Squire's  experienced  hand 
in  it.  Of  course  it  might  be  true  that  he  had  not  persuaded 
Ellen  to  come  out  to  him,  but  that  she  had  gone  to  him  on 
a  sudden  impulse.  .  .  .  But  even  Joanna's  plunging  in- 
stinct realised  that  her  sister  was  not  the  sort  to  take  des- 
perate risks  for  love's  sake,  and  the  whole  thing  had  about 
it  a  sly,  concerted  air,  which  made  her  think  that  Sir  Harry 
was  not  only  privy,  but  a  prime  mover. 

After  some  ten  days  of  anxiety,  self -consciousness,  shame 
and  exasperation,  these  suspicions  were  confirmed  by  a 
letter  from  the  Squire  himself.  He  wrote  from  Oepeda- 
letti,  a  small  place  near  San  Remo,  and  he  wrote  charm- 
ingly. No  other  adverb  could  qualify  the  peculiarly  suave, 
tactful,  humorous  and  gracious  style  in  which  not  only  he 
flung  a  mantle  of  romance  over  his  and  Ellen's  behaviour 
(which  till  then,  judged  by  the  standards  of  Ansdore  had 
been  just  drably  "wicked"),  but  by  some  mysterious  means 
brought  in  Joanna  as  a  third  cons])irator,  linked  by  a  broad 
and  kindly  intuition  with  himself  and  Ellen  against  a 
censorious  world. 

"You  who  know  Ellen  so  well,  will  realise  that  she  has 
never  till  now  had  her  birthright.  You  did  your  best  for  her, 
but  both  of  you  were  bounded  north,  south,  east  and  west  by 
Walland  Marsh.  I  wish  you  could  see  her  now,  beside  me 
on  the  terrace — she  is  like  a  little  finch  in  the  sunshine  of  its 
first  spring  day.     Her  only  trouble  is  her  fear  of  you,  her 


JOANNA    GODDEN  215 

fear  that  you  will  not  understand.  But  I  tell  her  I  would 
trust  you  first  of  all  the  world  to  do  that.  As  a  woman  of 
the  world,  you  must  realise  exactly  what  public  opinion  is 
worth — if  you  yourself  had  bowed  down  to  it,  where  would 
you  be  now  ?  Ellen  is  only  doing  now  what  you  did  for 
yourself  eleven  years  ago." 

Joanna's  feelings  were  divided  between  gratification  at 
the  flattery  she  never  could  resist,  and  a  fierce  resentment  at 
the  insult  offered  her  in  supposing  she  could  ever  wink  at 
such  "goings  on."  The  more  indignant  emotions  pre- 
dominated in  the  letter  she  wrote  Sir  Harry,  for  she  knew 
well  enough  that  the  flattery  was  not  sincere — he  was  mere- 
ly out  to  propitiate. 

Her  feelings  tov/ards  Ellen  were  exceedingly  bitter,  and 
the  letter  she  wrote  her  was  a  rough  one : — 

"You're  nothing  but  a  baggage.  It  makes  no  difference 
that  you  wear  fine  clothes  and  shoes  that  he's  bought  you  to 
your  shame.  You're  just  every  bit  as  low  as  Martha  Tilden 
whom  I  got  shut  of  ten  year  ago  for  no  worse  than  you've 
done." 

Nevertheless,  she  insisted  that  Ellen  should  come  home. 
She  guaranteed  Arthur's  forgiveness,  and — somewhat  rash- 
ly— the  neighbours'  discretion.  "I've  told  them  you're  in 
London  with  Mrs.  Williams.  But  that  won't  hold  .^ood 
much  more  than  another  week.  So  be  quick  and  come 
home,  before  it's  too  late." 

Unfortunately  the  facts  of  Ellen's  absence  were  already 
bofjinninj:^  to  U-ak  otit.  Pcoi)lc'  did  not  believe  in  the  London 
story.  Had  not  the  old  Squire's  visits  to  Donkey  Street 
been  the  tattle  of  the  Marsh  for  six  months?  She  was 
condemned  not  only  at  the  Woolpack,  but  at  the  three 
markets  of  Rye,  Lydd  and  Romney.     Joanna  was  furious. 

"It's  just  that  Post  Office,"  she  exclaimed,  and  the  remark 
was  not  quite  unjust.     The  contents  of  telegrams  had  al- 


216  JOANNA   GODDEN 

ways  had  an  alarming  way  of  spreading  themselves  over  the 
district,  and  Joanna  felt  sure  that  Miss  Gasson  would  have 
both  made  and  published  her  own  conclusions  on  the  large 
amount  of  foreign  correspondence  now  received  at  Ansdore. 
Ellen  herself  was  the  next  to  write.  She  wrote  impeni- 
tently  and  decidedly.  She  would  never  come  back,  so  there 
was  no  good  either  Joanna  or  Arthur  expecting  it.  She 
had  left  Donkey  Street  because  she  could  not  endure  its 
cramped  ways  any  longer,  and  it  was  unreasonable  to  expect 
her  to  return. 

"If  Arthur  has  any  feeling  for  me  left,  he  will  divorce 
me.  He  can  easily  do  it,  and  then  we  shall  both  be  free  to 
re-marry." 

"Reckon  she  thinks  the  old  Squire  ud  like  to  marry 
her,"  said  Alee,  "I'd  be  glad  if  I  thought  so  well  of  him." 

"He  can't  marry  her,  seeing  as  she's  your  wife." 

"If  we  were  divorced,  she  wouldn't  be." 

"She  would.  You  were  made  man  and  wife  in  Pedlinge 
church,  as  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes,  and  I'll  never  believe 
as  what  was  done  then  can  be  undone  just  by  having  some 
stuff  written  in  the  papers." 

"It's  a  lawyer's  business,"  said  Arthur. 

"I  can't  see  that,"  said  Joanna — "a  Parson  married  you, 
so  reckon  a  Parson  must  unmarry  you." 

"He  wouldn't  do  it.    It's  a  lawyer's  job." 

"I'd  thank  my  looker  if  he  went  about  undoing  my  cart- 
er's work.  Those  lawyers  want  to  put  their  heads  in  every- 
where. And  as  for  Ellen,  all  I  can  say  is,  it's  just  like  her 
wanting  the  Ten  Commandments  altered  to  suit  her  con- 
venience. Reckon  they  ain't  refined  and  high-class  enough 
for  her.  But  she  may  ask  for  a  divorce  till  she's  black  in 
the  face — she  shan't  get  it." 

So  Ellen  had  to  remain — very  much  against  the  grain, 
for  she  was  fundamentally  respectable — a  breaker  of  the 
law.     She  wrote  once  or  twice  more  on  the  subject,  appeal- 


JOANNA   GODDEN  217 

ing  to  Arthur,  since  Joanna's  reply  had  shown  her  exactly 
how  much  quarter  she  could  expect.  But  Arthur  was  not 
to  be  won,  for  apart  from  Joanna's  domination,  and  his 
own  unsophisticated  beliefs  in  the  permanence  of  marriage, 
his  suspicions  were  roused  by  the  old  Squire's  silence  on 
the  matter.  At  no  point  did  he  join  his  appeals  and  argu- 
ments with  Ellen's,  though  he  had  been  ready  enough  to 
write  to  excuse  and  explain.  .  .  .  No,  Arthur  felt  that  love 
and  wisdom  lay  not  in  sanctifying  Ellen  in  her  new  ways 
with  the  blessing  of  the  law,  but  in  leaving  the  old  open 
for  her  to  come  back  to  when  the  new  should  perhaps  grow 
hard.  "That  chap  uU  get  shut  of  her — I  don't  trust  him — 
and  then  she'll  want  to  come  back  to  me  or  Jo." 

So  he  wrote  with  boring  reiteration  of  his  willingness  to 
receive  her  home  again  as  soon  as  she  chose  to  return,  and 
assured  her  that  he  and  Joanna  had  still  managed  to  keep 
the  secret  of  her  departure,  so  that  she  need  not  fear  scorn- 
ful tongues.  They  had  given  the  marsh  to  understand  that 
no  settlement  having  been  arrived  at,  Ellen  had  accom- 
panied Mrs.  Williams  to  the  South  of  France,  hoping  that 
things  would  have  improved  on  her  return.  This  would 
account  for  the  foreign  post-marks,  and  both  he  and  Joanna 
were  more  proud  of  their  cunning  than  was  quite  warrant- 
able from  its  results. 

§29 

That  winter  brought  Great  Ansrlore  at  last  into  the  mar- 
ket. It  would  have  come  in  before  had  not  Joanna  so 
rashly  bragged  of  her  intention  to  buy  it.  As  it  was — "I 
guess  I'll  get  a  bit  more  out  of  the  old  gal  by  holding  on," 
said  Prickett  disrespectfully,  and  he  held  on  till  Joanna's 
impatience  about  equalled  his  extremity;  whereupon  he 
sold  it  to  her  for  not  over  fifty  per  cent,  more  than  he  would 
have  asked  had  lie  not  known  of  her  ambition.  She  paid 
the  price  manfully,  and  Prickett  went  out  with  his  fev/ 
sticks. 

The  Woolpack  was  inclined  to  be  contemptuous. 


218  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Five  thousand  pounds  for  Prickett's  old  shacks,  and  his 
mouldy  pastures  that  are  all  burdock  and  fluke.  If  Joanna 
Godden  had  had  any  know,  she  could  have  beaten  him  down 
fifteen  hundred — he  was  bound  to  sell,  and  she  was  a  fool 
not  to  make  him  sell  at  her  price." 

But  when  Joanna  wanted  a  thing  she  did  not  mind  paying 
for  it,  and  she  had  wanted  Great  Ansdore  very  much, 
though  no  one  knew  better  than  she  that  it  was  shacky  and 
mouldy.  For  long  it  had  mocked  with  its  proud  title  the 
triumphs  of  Little  Ansdore.  Now  the  whole  manor  of 
Ansdore  was  hers,  Great  and  Little,  and  wilh  it  she  held  the 
living  of  Brodnyx  and  Pedlinge — it  was  she,  of  her  own 
might,  who  would  appoint  the  next  Rector,  and  for  some 
time  she  imagined  that  she  had  it  in  her  power  to  turn  out 
Mr.  Pratt. 

She  at  once  set  to  work,  putting  her  new  domain  in 
order.  Some  of  the  pasture  she  grubbed  up  for  spring 
sowings,  the  rest  she  drained  by  cutting  a  new  channel  from 
the  Kent  Ditch  to  the  White  Kemp  Sewer.  She  re-roofed 
the  barns  with  slate,  and  painted  and  re-tiled  the  dwelling- 
house.  This  last  she  decided  to  let  to  some  family  of 
gentlepeople,  while  herself  keeping  on  the  farm  and  the 
barns.  The  dwelling-house  of  Little  Ansdore,  though  more 
flat  and  spreading,  was  in  every  way  superior  to  that  of 
Great  Ansdore,  which  was  rather  new  and  inclined  to  gim- 
crackiness,  having  been  built  on  the  site  of  the  first  dwell- 
ing, burnt  down  somewhere  in  the  Eighties.  Besides,  she 
loved  Little  Ansdore  for  its  associations — under  its  roof  she 
had  been  born  and  her  father  had  been  born,  under  its  roof 
she  had  known  love  and  sorrow  and  denial  and  victory ; 
she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  leaving  it.  The  queer,  low 
house,  with  its  mixture  of  spaciousness  and  crookedness, 
its  huge,  sag-ceilinged  rooms  and  narrow,  twisting  passages, 
was  almost  a  personality  to  her  now,  one  of  the  Godden 
family,  the  last  of  kin  that  had  remained  kind. 

Her   activities   were   merciful    in    crowding   what   would 
otherwise  have  been  a  sorrowful  period  of  emptiness  and 


JOANNA    GODDEN  219 

anxiety.  It  is  true  that  Ellen's  behaviour  had  done  much 
to  spoil  her  triumph,  both  in  the  neighbourhood  and  in  her 
own  eyes,  but  she  had  not  time  to  be  thinking  of  it  always. 
Visits  to  Rye,  either  to  her  lawyers  or  to  the  decorators  and 
paper-hangers,  the  engaging  of  extra  hands,  both  temporary 
and  permanent  for  the  extra  work,  the  supervising  of 
labourers  and  workmen  whom  she  never  could  trust  to  do 
their  job  without  her  ...  all  these  crowded  her  cares  into 
a  few  hours  of  evening  or  an  occasionally  wakeful  night. 

But  every  now  and  then  she  must  suffer.  Sometimes  she 
would  be  overwhelmed,  in  the  midst  of  all  her  triumphant 
business,  v/ith  a  sense  of  personal  failure.  She  had  suc- 
ceeded where  most  women  are  hopeless  failures,  but  where 
so  many  women  are  successful  and  satisfied,  she  had  failed 
and  gone  empty.  She  had  no  home,  beyond  what  was  in- 
volved in  the  walls  of  this  ancient  dwelling,  the  womb  and 
grave  of  her  existence — she  had  lost  the  man  she  loved,  had 
been  unable  to  settle  herself  comfortably  with  another,  and 
now  she  had  lost  Ellen,  the  little  sister,  who  had  managed 
to  hold  at  least  a  part  of  that  over-running  love,  which  since 
Martin's  death  had  had  only  broken  cisterns  to  flow  into. 

The  last  catastrophe  now  loomed  the  largest.  Joanna 
no  longer  shed  tears  for  Martin,  but  she  shed  many  for 
Ellen,  either  into  her  own  [)illow,  or  into  the  flowery  quilt 
of  the  flowery  room  which  inconscqucntly  she  held  sacred 
to  the  memory  of  the  girl  who  had  despised  it.  Her  grief 
for  Ellen  was  mixed  with  anxiety  and  with  shame.  What 
would  become  of  her?  Joanna  could  not,  would  not,  be- 
lieve that  she  wouhl  never  come  back.  Yet  what  if  she 
came?  ...  In  Joanna's  eyes,  and  in  the  eyes  of  all  the 
neighbourhood,  Ellen  had  committed  a  crime  which  raised 
a  barrier  between  her  and  ordinary  folk.  Between  Ellen 
and  her  sister  now  stood  the  wall  of  strange,  new  conditions 
— conditions  that  could  ignore  the  sonorous  Thou  Shalt 
Not,  which  Jr)anna  never  saw  apart  from  Mr.  Pratt  in  his 
surplice  and  hood,  standing  under  the  Lion  and  the  Uni- 
corn, while  all  the  farmers  and  householders  of  the  marsh 


220  JOANNA    GODDEN 

murmured  into  their  Prayer  Books — "Lord  have  mercy  up- 
on us,  and  incHne  our  hearts  to  keep  this  law."  She  could 
not  think  of  Ellen  without  this  picture  rising  up  between 
them,  and  sometimes  in  church  she  would  be  overwhelmed 
with  a  bitter  shame,  and  in  the  lonely  enclosure  of  her  great 
cattle-box  pew  would  stuff  her  fingers  into  her  ears,  so  that 
she  should  not  hear  the  dreadful  words  of  her  sister's  con- 
demnation. 

She  had  moments,  too,  of  an  even  bitterer  shame — 
strange,  terrible,  and  mercifully  rare  times  when  her  atti- 
tude towards  Ellen  was  not  of  judgment  or  of  care  or 
of  longing,  but  of  envy.  Sometimes  she  would  be  over- 
whelmed with  a  sense  of  Ellen's  happiness  in  being  loved, 
even  if  the  love  was  unlawful.  She  had  never  felt  this 
during  the  years  that  her  sister  had  lived  with  Alee;  the 
thought  of  his  affection  had  brought  her  nothing  but  hap- 
piness and  content.  Now,  on  sinister  occasions,  she  would 
find  herself  thinking  of  Ellen  cherished  and  spoiled,  pro- 
tected and  caressed,  living  the  life  of  love — and  a  desperate 
longing  would  come  to  her  to  enjoy  what  her  sister  enjoyed, 
to  be  kissed  and  stroked  and  made  much  of  and  taken  care 
of,  to  see  some  man  laying  schemes  and  taking  risks  for 
her  .  .  .  sometimes  she  felt  that  she  would  like  to  see  all 
the  fulness  of  her  life  at  Ansdore,  all  her  honour  on  the 
three  marshes,  blown  to  the  winds  if  only  in  their  stead  she 
could  have  just  ordinary  human  love,  with  or  without  the 
law. 

Poor  Joanna  was  overwhelmed  with  horror  at  herself — 
sometimes  she  thought  she  must  be  possessed  by  a  devil. 
She  must  be  very  wicked — in  her  heart  just  as  wicked  as 
Ellen.  What  could  she  do  to  cast  out  this  dumb,  tearing 
spirit  ? — Should  she  marry  one  of  her  admirers  on  the 
marsh,  and  trust  to  his  humdrum  devotion  to  satisfy  her 
devouring  need?  Even  in  her  despair  and  panic  she  knew 
that  she  could  not  do  this.  It  was  love  that  she  must  have 
— ^the  same  sort  of  love  that  she  had  given  Martin ;  that 
alone  could  bring  her  the  joys  she  now  envied  in  her  sister. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  221 

And  love — how  shall  it  be  found? — Who  shall  go  out  to 
seek  it? 


§30 

Towards  the  Spring,  Ellen  wrote  again,  breaking  the 
silence  of  several  weeks.  She  wrote  in  a  different  tone — 
some  change  had  passed  over  her.  She  no  longer  asked 
Arthur  to  divorce  her — on  the  contrary  she  hinted  her 
thanks  for  his  magnanimity  in  not  having  done  so.  Evi- 
dently she  no  longer  counted  on  marrying  Sir  Harry 
Trevor,  perhaps,  even,  she  did  not  wish  to.  But  in  one 
point  she  had  not  changed — she  was  not  coming  back  to  her 
husband. 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  live  that  life  again,  especially  after 
what's  happened.  It's  not  his  fault — it's  simply  that  I'm 
different.  If  he  wants  his  freedom,  I  suggest  that  he 
should  let  me  divorce  him — it  could  easily  be  arranged.  He 
should  go  and  see  a  really  good  lawyer  in  London.'* 

Yes — Ellen  spoke  truly  when  she  said  that  she  was  "dif- 
ferent." Her  cavalier  dealings  with  this  situation,  the  glib 
way  she  spoke  of  divorce,  the  insult  she  flung  at  the  re- 
spectable form  of  Huxtablc,  Vidlcr  and  Tluxtablc  by  sug- 
gesting that  Arthur  should  consult  "a  really  good  lawyer  in 
London,"  all  showed  how  far  she  had  travelled  from  the 
ways  of  Walland  Marsh. 

"What's  she  after  now?"  asked  Joanna. 

"Reckon  they're  getting  tired  of  each  other." 

".She  don't  say  so." 

"No — she  wants  to  find  out  which  way  the  land  lays 
first." 

"I'll  write  and  tell  her  she  can  come  back  and  live  along 
of  me,  if  she  won't  go  to  you." 

"Then  I'll  have  to  be  leaving  those  parts — I  couldn't  be 
at  Donkey  Street  and  her  at  Ansdore." 


222  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Reckon  you  could — she  can  go  out  of  the  way  when  you 
call." 

"It  wouldn't  be  seemly." 

"Where  ud  you  go?" 

"I've  no  notion.  But  reckon  all  this  ain't  the  question 
yet.  Ellen  won't  come  back  to  you  no  more  than  she'll 
come  back  to  me." 

"She'll  justabout  have  to  come  if  she  gets  shut  of  the  old 
Squire,  seeing  as  she's  got  no  more  than  twelve  pounds  a 
year  of  her  own.  Reckon  poor  Father  was  a  wise  man 
when  he  left  Ansdore  to  me  and  not  to  both  of  us — you'd 
almost  think  he'd  guessed  what  she  was  coming  to." 

Joanna  wrote  to  Ellen  and  made  her  offer.  Her  sister 
wrote  back  at  great  length,  and  rather  pathetically — 
"Harry"  was  going  on  to  Venice,  and  she  did  not  think 
she  would  go  with  him — "when  one  gets  to  know  a  person, 
Jo,  one  sometimes  finds  they  are  not  quite  what  one  thought 
them."  She  would  like  to  be  by  herself  for  a  bit.  but  she 
did  not  want  to  come  back  to  Ansdore,  even  if  Arthur  went 
away — "it  would  be  very  awkward  after  what  has  hap- 
pened." She  begged  Jo  to  be  generous  and  make  her  some 
small  allowance — "Harry  would  provide  for  me  if  he  hadn't 
had  such  terrible  bad  luck — he  never  was  very  well  off,  you 
know,  and  he  can't  manage  unless  we  keep  together.  I 
know  you  wouldn't  like  me  to  be  tied  to  him  just  by  money 
considerations." 

Joanna  was  bewildered  by  the  letter.  She  could  have 
imderstood  Ellen  turning  in  horror  and  loathing  from  the 
partner  of  her  guilt,  but  she  could  not  understand  this  wary 
and  matter-of-fact  separation.  What  was  her  sister  made 
of?  "Harry  would  provide  for  me"  .  .  .  would  she  really 
have  accepted  such  a  provision?  Joanna's  ears  grew  red. 
"I'll  make  her  come  home,"  she  exclaimed  savagely — ^"she'll 
have  to  come  if  she's  got  no  money." 

"Maybe  she'll  stop  along  of  him,"  said  Arthur. 

"Then  let  her — I  don't  care.  But  she  shan't  have  my 
money  to  live  on  by  herself  in  foreign  parts,  taking  up  with 


JOANNA   GODDEN  223 

any  man  that  comes  her  way ;  for  I  don't  trust  her  now — 1 
reckon  she's  lost  to  shame." 

She  wrote  Eilen  to  this  effect,  and,  not  surprisingly, 
received  no  answer.  She  felt  hard  and  desperate — the 
thought  that  she  was  perhaps  binding  her  sister  to  her  mis- 
doing gave  her  only  occasional  spasms  of  remorse.  Some- 
times she  would  feel  as  if  all  her  being  and  all  her  history, 
Ansdore  and  her  father's  memory,  disowned  her  sister^ 
and  that  she  could  never  take  her  back  into  her  life  again, 
however  penitent — "She's  mocked  at  our  good  ways — she's 
loose,  she's  low."  At  other  times  her  heart  melted  towards 
Ellen  in  weakness,  and  she  knew  within  herself  that  no 
matter  what  she  did,  she  would  always  be  her  little  sister, 
her  child,  her  darling,  whom  all  her  life  she  had  cherished 
and  could  never  cast  out. 

She  said  nothing  about  these  swaying  feelings  to  Arthur 
— she  had  of  late  grown  far  more  secretive  about  herself — 
as  for  him,  he  took  things  as  they  came.  He  found  a 
wondrous  quiet  in  this  time  when  he  was  allowed  to  serve 
Joanna  as  in  days  of  old.  He  did  not  think  of  marrying 
her — he  knew  that  even  if  it  was  true  that  the  lawyers  could 
set  aside  Parson's  word,  Joanna  would  not  take  him  now, 
any  more  than  she  would  have  taken  him  five  or  ten  or 
fifteen  years  ago;  she  did  not  think  about  him  in  that  way. 
On  the  other  hand  she  appreciated  his  company  and  his 
services.  He  called  at  Ansdore  twice  or  thrice  a  week, 
and  ran  her  errands  for  her.  It  was  almost  like  old  times, 
and  in  his  heart  he  knew  and  was  ashamed  to  know  that 
he  hoped  Ellen  would  never  come  back.  If  she  came  back 
either  to  him  or  to  Joanna,  these  days  of  quiet  happiness 
would  end.  Meant imr,  lir  could  not  think  of  it — he  was 
Joanna's  servant,  and  when  she  could  not  be  in  two  places 
at  once  it  was  his  joy  and  privilege  to  be  in  one  of  them. 
"I  could  live  like  this  for  ever,  surely,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  sat  stirring  his  solitary  cup  of  tea  at  Donkey 
Street,  knowing  that  he  was  to  call  at  Ansdore  the  next 
morning. 


224  JOANNA   GODDEN 

That  was  the  morning  he  met  Joanna  in  the  drive,  hat- 
less,  and  holding  a  piece  of  pap^r  in  her  hand. 

"I've  heard  from  Ellen — she's  telegraphed  from  Venice 
— she's  coming  home." 

§31 

Now  that  she  knew  Ellen  was  coming,  Joanna  had 
nothing  in  her  heart  but  joy  and  angry  love.  Ellen  was 
coming  back,  at  last,  after  many  wanderings — and  she  saw 
now  that  these  wanderings  included  the  years  of  her  life 
with  Alee — she  was  coming  back  to  Ansdore  and  the  old 
home.  Joanna  forgot  how  much  she  had  hated  it,  would 
not  think  that  this  precious  return  was  merely  the  action  of 
a  woman  without  resources.  She  gave  herself  up  to  the 
joy  of  preparing  a  welcome — as  splendidly  and  elaborately 
as  she  had  prepared  for  her  sister's  return  from  school. 
This  time,  however,  she  went  further,  and  actually  made 
some  concessions  to  Ellen's  taste.  She  remembered  that 
she  liked  dull  die-away  colours  "like  the  mould  on  jam,"  so 
she  took  down  the  pink  curtains  and  folded  away  the  pink 
bedspread,  and  put  in  their  places  material  that  the  shop  at 
Rye  assured  her  was  "art  green" — which,  in  combination 
with  the  crimson,  flowery  walls  and  floor  contrived  most 
effectually  to  suggest  a  scum  of  grey-green  mould  on  a  pot 
of  especially  vivid  strawberry  jam. 

But  she  was  angry  too — her  heart  burned  to  think  not 
only  of  Ellen's  sin  but  of  the  casual  way  in  which  she 
treated  it.  "I  won't  have  none  of  her  loose  notions  here," 
said  Joanna  grimly.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  give  her 
sister  a  good  talking  to,  to  convince  her  of  the  way  in  which 
her  goings-on  struck  decent  folk;  but  she  would  not  do  it 
at  the  start — "I'll  give  her  time  to  settle  down  a  bit  first." 

During  the  few  days  which  elapsed  between  Ellen's  tele- 
gram and  her  arrival,  Joanna  saw  nothing  of  Alee.  She 
had  one  letter  from  him,  in  which  he  told  her  that  he  had 
been  over  to  Fairfield  to  look  at  the  plough  she  was  speak- 
ing of,  but  that  it  was  old  stuff  and  would  be  of  no  use  to 


JOANNA    GODDEN  225 

her.  He  did  not  even  mention  Ellen's  name.  She  won- 
dered if  he  was  making  any  plans  for  leaving  Donkey 
Street — she  hoped  he  would  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  go. 
He  and  Ellen  could  easily  keep  out  of  each  other's  way. 
Still,  if  Ellen  wouldn't  stay  unless  he  went,  she  would 
rather  have  Ellen  than  Alee  .  .  .  He  would  have  to  sell 
Donkey  Street,  or  perhaps  he  might  let  it  off  for  a  little  time. 
April  had  just  become  May  when  Ellen  returned  to  Ans- 
dore.  It  had  been  a  rainy  Spring,  and  great  pools  were 
on  the  marshes,  overflows  from  the  dykes  and  channels, 
clear  mirrors  green  from  the  grass  beneath  their  shallows 
and  the  green  rainy  skies  that  hung  above  them.  Here  and 
there  they  reflected  white  clumps  and  walls  of  hawthorn, 
with  the  pale  yellowish  gleam  of  the  buttercups  in  the  pas- 
tures. The  two  sisters,  driving  back  from  Rye,  looked 
round  on  the  green  twilight  of  the  marsh  with  indifferent 
eyes.  Joanna  had  ceased  to  look  for  any  beauty  in  her 
surroundings  since  Martin's  days — the  small  gift  of  sight 
that  he  had  given  her  had  gone  out  with  the  light  of  his 
own  eyes,  and  this  evening  all  she  saw  was  the  flooded 
pastures,  which  meant  poor  grazing  for  her  tegs  due  to 
come  down  from  the  Coast,  and  her  lambs  new-born  on 
the  Kent  Innings.  As  for  Ellen,  the  marsh  had  always 
stood  with  her  for  unrelieved  boredom.  Its  eternal  flat- 
ness— the  monotony  of  its  roads  winding  through  an  un- 
varying landscape  of  reeds  and  dykes  and  grazings,  past 
farms  each  of  which  was  almost  exactly  like  the  one  before 
it,  with  red  walls  and  orange  roofs  and  a  bush  of  elms  and 
oaks — the  wearisome  repetition  of  its  seasons — the  mists 
and  floods  of  Winter,  the  may  and  buttercups  of  Spring,  the 
hay  and  meadow-sweet  and  wild  carrot  of  the  Summer 
months,  the  bleakness  and  winds  of  Autumn — all  this  was 
typical  of  her  life  there,  water-bound,  cut  off  from  all  her 
heart's  desire  of  variety  and  beauty  and  elegance,  of  the  life 
to  which  she  must  now  return  because  her  attempt  to  live 
another  had  failed  and  left  her  stranded  on  a  slag-heap 
of  disillusion  from  which  even  Ansdore  was  a  refuge. 


226  JOANNA    GODDEN 

Ellen  sat  very  trim  and  erect  beside  Joanna  in  the  trap. 
She  wore  a  neat  grey  coat  and  skirt,  obviously  not  of  local, 
nor  indeed  of  English,  make,  and  a  little  toque  of  flowers. 
She  had  taken  Joanna's  breath  away  on  Rye  platform;  it 
had  been  very  much  like  old  times  when  she  came  home  for 
the  holidays  and  checked  the  impulse  of  her  sister's  love  by 
a  baffling  quality  of  self -containment.  Joanna,  basing  her 
expectations  on  the  Bible  story  of  the  Prodigal  Son  rather 
than  on  the  experiences  of  the  past  Winter,  had  looked  for 
a  subdued  penitent,  surfeited  with  husks,  who,  if  not 
actually  casting  herself  at  her  sister's  feet  and  ofifering  her- 
self as  her  servant,  would  at  least  have  a  hang-dog  air  and 
express  her  gratitude  for  so  much  forgiveness.  Instead  of 
which  Ellen  had  said — "Hullo,  Jo — it's  good  to  see  you 
again,"  and  offered  her  a  cool,  delicately  powdered  cheek, 
which  Joanna's  warm  lips  had  kissed  with  a  queer,  sad 
sense  of  repulse  and  humiliation.  Before  they  had  been 
together  long,  it  was  she  who  wore  the  hang-dog  air — for 
some  unconscionable  reason  she  felt  in  the  wrong,  and 
found  herself  asking  her  sister  polite,  nervous  questions 
about  the  journey. 

This  attitude  prevailed  throughout  the  evening — on  the 
drive  home,  and  at  the  excellent  supper  they  sat  down  to :  a 
stuffed  capon  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  truly  a  genteel  feast  of 
reconciliation — ^but  Joanna  had  grown  more  aristocratic  in 
her  feeding  since  she  bought  Great  Ansdore.  Ellen  spoke 
about  her  journey — she  had  had  a  smooth  crossing,  but  had 
felt  rather  ill  in  the  train.  It  was  a  long  way  from  Venice 
— yes,  you  came  through  France,  and  Switzerland  too  .  .  . 
the  St.  Gothard  tunnel  .  ,  .  twenty  minutes — well,  I  never! 
.  .  .  Yes,  a  bit  smoky — you  had  to  keep  the  windows  shut 
.  .  .  she  preferred  French  to  Italian  cooking — she  did  not 
like  all  that  oil  .  .  .  oh,  yes,  foreigners  were  very  polite 
when  they  knew  you,  but  not  to  strangers  .  .  .  just  the 
opposite  from  England,  where  people  are  polite  to  strangers 


JOANNA    GODDEN  227 

and  rude  to  their  friends.  Joanna  had  never  spoken  or 
heard  so  many  generalities  in  her  life. 

At  the  end  of  supper  she  felt  quite  tired,  what  with  say- 
ing one  thing  with  her  tongue  and  another  in  her  heart. 
Sometimes  she  felt  that  she  must  say  something  to  break 
down  this  unreality,  which  was  between  them  like  a  wall 
of  ice — at  other  times  she  felt  angry,  and  it  was  Ellen  she 
wanted  to  break  down,  to  force  out  of  her  superior  refuge, 
and  show  up  to  her  own  self  as  just  a  common  sinner  re- 
ceiving common  forgiveness.  But  there  was  something 
about  Ellen  which  made  this  impossible — something  about 
her  manner,  with  its  cold  poise,  something  about  her  face, 
which  had  indefinitely  changed — it  looked  paler,  wider,  and 
there  were  secrets  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  that  Joanna  had  seen  her 
sister  calm  and  collected  while  she  herself  was  flustered — 
but  this  evening  a  sense  of  her  own  awkwardness  helped  to 
put  her  at  a  still  greater  disadvantage.  She  found  herself 
making  inane  remarks,  hesitating  and  stuttering — she  grew 
sulky  and  silent,  and  at  last  suggested  that  Ellen  would  like 
to  go  to  bed. 

Her  sister  seemed  glad  enough,  and  they  went  upstairs 
together.  But  even  the  sight  of  her  old  bedroom,  where 
the  last  year  of  her  maidenhood  had  been  sj)ent,  even  the 
sight  of  the  new  curtains  chastening  its  exuberance  with 
their  dim  austerity,  did  not  dissolve  Ellen's  terrible,  cold 
sparkle — her  frozen  fire. 

"Goofl  night."  .said  Joanna. 

"Good  night,"  said  Ellen,  "may  I  have  some  hot  water?" 

"I'll  tell  the  gal,"  said  Joanna  tamely,  and  went  out. 

§  32 

When  she  was  alone  in  her  own  room  she  seemed  to  come 
to  herself.  She  felt  ashamed  of  having  been  so  baffled  by 
Ellen,  of  having  received  her  on  those  terms.     She  could 


228  JOANNA   GODDEN 

not  bear  to  think  of  Ellen  living  on  in  the  house,  so  terribly 
at  an  advantage.  If  she  let  things  stay  as  they  were,  she 
was  tacitly  acknowledging  some  indefinite  superiority  which 
her  sister  had  won  through  sin.  All  the  time  she  was  say- 
ing nothing  she  felt  that  Ellen  was  saying  in  her  heart — "I 
have  been  away  to  foreign  parts ;  I  have  been  loved  by  a 
man  I  don't  belong  to;  I  have  Seen  Life;  I  have  stopped  at 
hotels;  I  have  met  people  of  a  kind  you  haven't  even  spoken 
to  .  .  ."  That  was  what  Ellen  was  saying,  instead  of 
what  Joanna  thought  she  ought  to  say,  which  was — "I'm 
no  better  than  a  dairy  girl  in  trouble,  than  Martha  Tilden 
whom  you  sacked  when  I  was  a  youngster,  and  it's  unac- 
countable good  of  you  to  have  me  home." 

Joanna  was  not  the  kind  to  waste  her  emotions  in  the 
sphere  of  thought.  She  burst  out  of  the  room,  and  nearly 
knocked  over  Mene  Tekel,  who  was  on  her  way  to  Ellen 
with  a  jug  of  hot  water. 

"Give  that  to  me,'"  she  said,  and  went  to  her  sister's  door, 
at  which  she  was  still  sufficiently  demoralised  to  knock. 

"Come  in,"  said  Ellen. 

"I've  brought  you  your  hot  water." 

"Thank  you  very  much — I  hope  it  hasn't  been  a  trouble." 

Ellen  was  standing  by  the  bed  in  a  pretty  lilac  silk  wrap- 
per, her  hair  tucked  away  under  a  little  lace  cap.  Joanna 
wore  her  dressing  gown  of  turkey-red  flannel,  and  her  hair 
hung  down  her  back  in  two  great  rough  plaits.  For  a 
moment  she  stared  disapprovingly  at  her  sister,  whom  she 
thought  looked  "French,"  then  she  suddenly  felt  ashamed 
of  herself  and  her  ugly  and  shapeless  coverings.  This 
made  her  angry,  and  she  burst  out — 

"Ellen  Alee,  I  want  a  word  with  you." 

"Sit  down,  Jo,"  said  Ellen  sweetly. 

Joanna  flounced  on  to  the  rosy,  slippery  chintz  of  Ellen's 
sofa.     Ellen  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

"What  do  you  want  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"An  unaccountable  lot  of  things." 


JOANNA   GODDEN  229 

"Must  they  all  be  said  tonight? — Fm  very  sleepy." 

"Well,  you  must  justabout  keep  awake.  I  can't  let  it 
stay  over  any  longer.  Here  you've  been  back  five  hour, 
and  not  a  word  passed  between  us." 

"On  the  contrary,  we  have  had  some  intelligent  conversa- 
tion for  the  first  time  in  our  lives." 

"You  call  that  rot  about  furriners  'intelligent  conversa- 
tion' ?  Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  it's  like  you — all  pretence. 
One  ud  think  you'd  just  come  back  from  a  pleasure-trip 
abroad  instead  of  from  a  wicked  life  that  you  should  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of." 

For  the  first  time  a  flush  darkened  the  heavy  whiteness 
of  Ellen's  skin. 

"So  you  want  to  rake  up  the  past?  It's  exactly  like  you, 
Jo — 'having  things  out,'  I  suppose  you'd  call  it.  How 
many  times  in  our  lives  have  you  and  I  'had  things  out'? — 
And  what  good  has  it  ever  done  us?" 

"I  can't  go  on  all  pretending  like  this — I  can't  go  on 
pretending  I  think  you  an  honest  woman  when  I  don't — I 
can't  go  on  saying  'it's  a  fine  day'  when  Fm  wondering  how 
you'll  fare  in  the  Day  of  Judgment." 

"Porjr  old  Jo,"  said  Ellen,  "you'd  have  had  an  easier  life 
if  you  hadn't  lived,  as  they  say,  so  close  to  nature.  It's 
just  what  you  call  pretences  and  others  call  good  manners 
that  make  life  bearable  for  some  people." 

"Yes,  for  'some  people'  I  daresay — people  whose  charac- 
ters won't  stand  any  straight  talking." 

".Straight  talking  is  always  so  rude — no  one  ever  seems 
to  rcfiuirc  it  on  pleasant  occasions." 

"That's  all  nonsense.  Von  always  was  a  squeamish, 
obstrcpulous  little  thing,  Ellen.  It's  only  natural  that 
having  you  back  in  my  hou.se — as  I'm  more  than  glad  to  do 
— I  should  want  to  know  how  you  stand.  What  made  you 
come  to  me  sudden  like  that?" 

"Can't  you  guess  ?  It's  rather  unpleasant  for  me  to  have 
to  tell  you." 


230  ^OANNA    GODDEN 

"Reckon  it  was  that  man," — somehow  Sir  Harry's  name 
had  become  vaguely  improper,  Joanna  felt  unable  to  pro- 
nounce it — "then  you've  made  up  your  mind  not  to  marry 
him,"  she  finished. 

"How  can  I  marry  him,  seeing  I'm  somebody  else's  wife?" 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  such  a  proper  thing.  It  ain't 
what  you  was  saying  at  the  start.  Then  you  wanted  a 
divorce  and  all  sorts  of  foreign  notions  .  .  .  what's  made 
you  change  round?" 

"Well,  Arthur  wouldn't  give  me  a  divorce,  for  one  thing. 
For  another — as  I  told  you  in  my  letter,  one  often  doesn't 
know  people  till  one's  lived  with  them — besides,  he's  too  old 
for  me." 

"He'll  never  never  see  sixty  again." 

"He  will,"  said  Ellen  indignantly — "he  was  only  fifty- 
five  in  March." 

"That's  thirty  year  more'n  you." 

"I've  told  you  he's  too  old  for  me." 

"You  might  have  found  out  that  at  the  start — he  was 
only  six  months  younger  then." 

"There's  a  great  many  things  I  might  have  done  at  the 
start,"  said  Ellen  bitterly — "but  I  tell  you,  Joanna,  life 
isn't  quite  the  simple  thing  you  imagine.  There  was  I, 
married  to  a  man  utterly  uncongenial — " 

"He  wasn't !  You're  not  to  miscall  Arthur — he's  the  best 
man  alive." 

"I  don't  deny  it — perhaps  that  is  why  I  found  him  un- 
congenial. Anyhow,  we  were  quite  unsuitcd  to  each  other 
— we  hadn't  an  idea  in  common." 

"You  liked  him  well  enough  when  you  married  him." 

"I've  told  you  before  that  it's  difficult  to  know  anyone 
thoroughly  till  one's  lived  with  them." 

"Then  at  that  rate,  who's  to  get  married — eh?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ellen  wearily — "all  I  know  is  that 
I've  made  two  bad  mistakes  over  two  dififerent  men,  and  I 
think  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  let  me  forget  it — as  far  as 


JOANNA    GODDEN  231 

I'm  able — and  not  come  here  baiting  me  when  I'm  dog 
tired,  and  absolutely  down  and  out  .  .  ." 

She  bowed  her  face  into  her  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 
Joanna  flung  her  arms  around  her — 

"Oh,  don't  you  cry,  duckie — don't — I  didn't  mean  to  bait 
you.  Only  I  was  getting  so  mortal  vexed  at  you  and  me 
walking  round  each  other  like  two  cats  and  never  getting  a 
straight  word." 

"Jo"  .  .  .  said  Ellen. 

Her  face  was  hidden  in  her  sister's  shoulder,  and  her 
whole  body  had  drooped  against  Joanna's  side,  utterly 
weary  after  three  days  of  travel  and  disillusioned  loneliness. 

"Reckon  I'm  glad  you've  come  back,  dearie — and  I  won't 
ask  you  any  more  questions.  I'm  a  cross-grained,  can- 
tankerous old  thing,  but  you'll  stop  along  of  me  a  bit, 
won't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ellen,  "you're  all  I've  got  in  the  world." 

"Arthur  ud  take  you  back  any  day  you  ask  it,"  said 
Joanna,  thinking  this  a  good  time  for  mediation. 

"No — no!"  cried  Ellen,  beginning  to  cry  again — "I  won't 
stay  if  you  try  to  make  me  go  back  to  Arthur.  If  he  had 
the  slightest  feeling  for  me  he  would  let  me  divorce  him." 

"How  could  you? — seeing  that  he's  been  a  pattern  all 
his  life." 

"He  needn't  do  anything  wrong — he  need  only  pretend 
to.     The  lawyers  ud  fix  it  up." 

Ellen  was  getting  French  again.  Joanna  pushed  her  off 
her  shoulder. 

"Really  Ellen  Alee,  I'm  ashamed  of  you — that  you  should 
speak  such  words!  What  upsets  me  most  is  that  you  don't 
seem  to  see  how  wrong  you've  done.  Don't  you  never  read 
your  Bible  any  more?" 

"No."  sobbed  Ellen. 

"Well,  there's  lots  in  the  Bible  about  people  like  you — 
you're  called  by  your  right  name  there,  and  it  ain't  a  pretty 
one.  Some  are  spoken  uncominnn  hard  of.  nnd  some  were 
forgiven  because  they  loved  much.     Seemingly  you  haven't 


232  JOANNA    GODDEN 

loved  much,  so  I  don't  see  how  you  expect  to  be  forgiven. 
And  there's  lots  in  the  Prayer  Book  too  .  .  .  the  Bible  and 
the  Prayer  Book  both  say  you've  done  wrong,  and  you 
don't  seem  to  mind — all  you  think  of  is  how  you  can  get 
out  of  your  trouble.  Reckon  you're  like  a  child  that's  done 
wrong  and  thinks  of  nothing  but  coaxing  round  so  as  not 
to  be  punished." 

"I  have  been  punished." 

"Not  half  what  you  deserve." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say  that — you  don't  under- 
stand ;  and,  what's  more,  you  never  will.  You're  a  hard 
woman,  Jo — because  you've  never  had  the  temptations  that 
ordinary  women  have  to  fight  against." 

"How  dare  you  say  that  ? — Temptation  ! — Reckon  I 
know  ..."  a  sudden  memory  of  those  painful  and  humili- 
ating moments  when  she  had  fought  with  those  strange 
powers  and  discontents,  made  Joanna  turn  hot  with  shame. 
The  realization  that  she  had  come  very  close  to  Ellen's  sin 
in  her  heart  did  not  make  her  more  relenting  towards  the 
sinner — on  the  contrary,  she  hardened. 

"Anyways,  I've  said  enough  to  you  for  tonight." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  say  more  tomorrow," 

"No — I  don't  know  that  I  do.  Reckon  you're  right,  and 
we  don't  get  any  good  from  'having  things  out.'  Seemingly 
we  speak  with  different  tongues,  and  think  with  different 
hearts." 

She  stood  up,  and  her  huge  shadow  sped  over  the  ceiling, 
hanging  over  Ellen  as  she  crouched  on  the  sofa.  Then  she 
stalked  out  of  the  room,  almost  majestic  in  her  turkey-red 
dressing-gown. 

§33 

Ellen  kept  very  close  to  the  house  during  the  next  few 
days.  Her  face  wore  a  demure,  sullen  expression — towards 
Joanna  she  was  quiet  and  sweet,  and  evidently  anxious  that 
there  should  be  no  further  opening  of  hearts  between  them. 
She  was  very  polite  to  the  maids — she  won  their  good 


JOANNA    GODDEN  233 

opinion  by  making  her  bed  herself,  so  that  they  should  not 
have  any  extra  work  on  her  account. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  domestic  good  opinion  which  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  milder  turn  which  the  gossip  about  her 
took  at  this  time.  Naturally  tongues  had  been  busy  ever 
since  it  became  known  that  Joanna  was  expecting  her  back 
— Sir  Harry  Trevor  had  got  shut  of  her  for  the  baggage 
she  was  .  .  .  she  had  got  shut  of  Sir  Harry  Trevor  for  the 
blackguard  he  was  .  .  .  she  had  travelled  back  as  some- 
body's maid,  to  pay  her  fare  .  .  .  she  had  brought  her  own 
French  maid  as  far  as  Calais  .  .  .  she  had  walked  from 
Dover  .  .  .  she  had  brought  four  trunks  full  of  French 
clothes.  These  conflicting  rumours  must  have  killed  each 
Other,  for  a  few  days  after  her  return  the  Woolpack  was 
saying  that  after  all  there  might  be  something  in  Joanna's 
tale  of  a  trip  with  Mrs.  Williams — of  course  everyone  knew 
that  both  Ellen  and  the  old  Squire  had  been  at  San  Remo, 
but  now  it  was  suddenly  discovered  that  Mrs.  Williams  had 
been  there  too — anyway,  there  was  no  knowing  that  she 
hadn't,  and  Ellen  Alec  didn't  look  the  sort  that  ud  go  to  a 
furrin  place  alone  with  a  man.  Mrs.  Vine  had  seen  her 
through  the  parlour  window,  and  her  face  was  as  white  as 
chalk — not  a  scrap  of  paint  on  it.  Mr.  Southland  had  met 
her  on  the  Brodnyx  Road,  and  slie  had  bowed  to  him  polite 
and  stately — no  shrinking  from  an  honest  man's  eye.  Ac- 
cording to  the  Woolpack,  if  you  sinned  as  Ellen  was  re- 
ported to  have  sinned,  you  were  either  brazen  or  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  yourself,  and  Ellen  by  being  neither,  did  much 
to  soften  public  opinion,  and  make  it  incline  towards  the 
official  explanatirm  of  her  absence. 

This  tendency  increased  when  it  became  known  that  Ar- 
thur Alee  was  leaving  Donkey  Street.  The  Woolpack  held 
that  if  Ellen  had  been  guilty,  Alec  would  not  put  himself  in 
the  wrong  by  going  away.  He  wotild  either  have  remained 
as  the  visible  rebuke  of  her  misconduct,  or  he  would  have 
bundled  Ellen  herself  off  to  some  distant  part  of  the  king- 
dom, such  as  the  Isle  of  Wight,  where  the  Goddens  had 


234  JOANNA   GODDEN 

cousins.  By  leaving  the  neighbourhood  he  gave  colour  to 
the  mysteriously  started  rumour  that  he  was  not  so  easy  to 
get  on  with  as  you'd  think  ,  .  .  after  all  it's  never  a  safe 
thing  for  a  girl  to  marry  her  sister's  sweetheart  .  .  .  prob- 
ably Alee  had  been  hankering  after  his  old  love  and  Ellen 
resented  it  .  .  .  the  Woolpack  suddenly  discovered  that 
Alee  was  leaving  not  so  much  on  Ellen's  account  as  on 
Joanna's — he'd  b^en  unable  to  get  off  with  the  old  love, 
even  when  he'd  got  on  with  the  new,  and  now  that  the  new 
was  off  too  .  .  .  well,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  for 
Arthur  Alee  to  be  off.  He  was  going  to  his  brother,  who 
had  a  big  farm  in  the  shires — a  proper  farm,  with  great 
fields  each  of  which  was  nearly  as  big  as  a  marsh  farm, 
fifty,  seventy,  a  hundred  acres  even. 

§  34 

Joanna  bitterly  resented  Arthur's  going,  but  she  could 
not  prevent  it,  for  if  he  stayed  Ellen  threatened  to  go 
herself. 

"I'll  get  a  post  as  lady's  maid  sooner  than  stay  on  here 
with  you  and  Arthur.  Have  you  absolutely  no  delicacy, 
Jo? — Can't  you  see  how  awkward  it'll  be  for  me  if  every- 
where I  go  I  run  the  risk  of  meeting  him?  Besides,  you'll 
be  always  plaguing  me  to  go  back  to  him,  and  I  tell  you 
I'll  never  do  that — never." 

Arthur,  too,  did  not  seem  anxious  to  stay.  He  saw  that 
if  Ellen  was  at  Ansdore  he  could  not  be  continually  running 
to  and  fro  on  his  errands  for  Joanna.  That  tranquil  life  of 
service  was  gone,  and  he  did  not  care  for  the  thought  of 
exile  at  Donkey  Street,  a  shutting  of  himself  into  his  parish 
of  Old  Romney,  with  the  Kent  Ditch  between  him  and 
Joanna  like  a  prison  wall. 

When  Joanna  told  him  what  Ellen  had  said,  he  accepted 
it  meekly — 

"That's  right,  Joanna — I  must  go." 

"But  that  uU  be  terrible  hard  for  you,  Arthur." 

He  looked  at  her. 


JOANNA   GODDEN  235 

"Reckon  it  will." 

"Where  ull  you  go  ?" 

"Oh,  I  can  go  to  Tom's." 

"That's  right  away  in  foreign  parts,  ain't  it?'* 

"Yes — ^beyond  Leicester." 

"Where  they  do  the  hunting." 

"Surelye." 

"What's  he  farm?" 

"Grain  mostly — and  he's  done  well  with  his  sheep.  He'd 
be  glad  to  have  me  for  a  bit." 

"What'll  you  do  with  Donkey  Street?" 

"Let  it  off  for  a  bit." 

"Don't  you  sell." 

"Not  1 1" 

"You'll  be  meaning  to  come  back?" 

"I'll  be  hoping." 

Joanna  gazed  at  him  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  and  a 
change  came  into  her  voice — 

"Arthur,  you're  doing  all  this  because  of  me?" 

"I'm  doing  it  for  you,  Joatlna." 

"Well — I  don't  feel  I've  any  call — I  haven't  any  right 
...  I  mean,  if  Ellen  don't  like  you  here,  she  must  go  her- 
self ...  it  ain't  fair  on  you — you  at  Donkey  Street  for 
more'n  twenty  year  ,  .  ." 

"Don't  you  trouble  about  that.  A  change  won't  hurt  me. 
Reckon  cither  Ellen  or  me  ull  have  to  go  and  it  ud  break 
your  heart  if  it  was  Ellen." 

"Why  can't  you  both  stay?  Ellen  ull  have  to  stay  if  I 
make  her.  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  what  she  says  about 
going  as  lady's  maid — she  hasn't  got  the  grit — nor  the  char- 
acter neither,  though  she  doesn't  seem  to  think  of  that." 

"It  ud  be  unaccountable  awkward,  Jo — and  it  ud  set 
Ellen  against  both  of  us,  and  bring  yon  trouble.  Maybe  if 
I  go  she'll  take  a  difforent  view  of  things.  T  shan't  let  off 
the  place  for  longer  than  three  year  .  .  .  it'll  give  her  a 
chance  to  think  different,  and  then  maybe  we  can  fix  up 
something  .  .  ." 


236  JOANNA   GODDEN 

Joanna  fastened  on  to  these  words,  both  for  her  own 
comfort  in  Arthur's  loss,  and  for  the  quieting  of  her  con- 
science which  told  her  that  it  was  preposterous  that  he 
should  leave  Donkey  Street  so  that  she  could  keep  Ellen 
at  Ansdore.  Of  course,  if  she  did  her  duty  she  would  pack 
Ellen  off  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  so  that  Arthur  could  stay. 
The  fact  was,  however,  that  she  wanted  the  guilty,  ungra- 
cious Ellen  more  than  she  wanted  the  upright,  devoted 
Arthur — she  was  glad  to  know  of  any  terms  on  which  her 
sister  would  consent  to  remain  under  her  roof — it  seemed 
almost  too  good  to  be  true  to  think  that  once  more  she  had 
the  little  sister  home  .  .  . 

So  she  signed  the  warrant  for  Arthur's  exile,  which  was 
to  do  so  much  to  spread  the  more  favourable  opinion  of 
Ellen  Alee  that  had  mysteriously  crept  into  being  since  her 
return.  He  let  off  Donkey  Street  on  a  three  years'  lease  to 
young  Jim  Honisett,  the  greengrocer's  son  at  Rye,  who  had 
recently  married  and  whose  wish  to  set  up  as  is-vmer  would 
naturally  be  to  the  advantage  of  his  father's  shop.  He  let 
his  furniture  with  it  too — Ellen's  black  cushions  and  the 
piano  he  had  bought  her  with  the  money  he  got  for  the 
steer.  .  .  .  He  himself  would  take  nothing  to  his  brother, 
who  kept  house  in  a  very  big  way,  the  same  as  he  farmed. 
.  .  .  "Reckon  I  should  ought  to  learn  a  thing  or  two  about 
grain-growing  that'll  be  useful  to  me  when  I  come  back," 
said  Arthur  stoutly. 

He  had  come  to  say  goodbye  to  Joanna  on  a  June  evening 
just  before  the  quarter  day.  The  hot  scents  of  hay-making 
came  in  through  the  open  parlour  window,  and  they  were 
free,  for  Ellen  had  gone  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Southland  to 
Rye  for  the  afternoon — of  late  she  had  accepted  one  or  two 
small  invitations  from  the  neighbours.  Joanna  poured  Ar- 
thur out  a  cup  of  tea  from  the  silver  teapot  he  had  given 
her  as  a  wedding  present  six  years  ago. 

"Well,  Arthur — reckon  it'll  be  a  long  time  before  you 
and  me  have  tea  again  together." 

"Reckon  it  will." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  237 

"Howsumever,  I  shall  always  think  of  you  when  I  pour 
it  out  of  your  teapot — which  will  be  every  clay  that  I  don't 
have  it  in  the  kitchen." 

"Thank  you,  Jo." 

"And  you'll  write  and  tell  me  how  you're  getting  on?" 

"Reckon  I  will." 

"Maybe  you'll  send  me  some  samples  of  those  oats  your 
brother  did  so  well  with.  I'm  not  over  pleased  with  that 
Barbacklaw,  and  ud  make  a  change  if  I  could  find  better." 

"I'll  be  sure  and  send." 

Joanna  told  him  of  an  inspiration  she  had  had  with  re- 
gard to  the  poorer  innings  of  Great  Ansdore — she  was 
going  to  put  down  fish-guts  for  manure — it  had  done  won- 
ders with  some  rough  land  over  by  Botolph's  Bridge — 
"Reckon  it'll  half  stink  the  tenants  out,  but  they're  at  the 
beginning  of  a  seven  year  lease,  so  they  can't  help  them- 
selves much."  She  held  forth  at  great  length,  and  Arthur 
listened,  holding  his  cup  and  saucer  carefully  on  his  knee 
with  his  big  freckled  hands.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Joanna, 
on  the  strong-featured,  high-coloured  face  he  thought  so 
much  more  beautiful  than  Ellen's  with  its  delicate  lines  and 
pale,  petal-like  skin.  .  .  .  Yes,  Joanna  was  the  girl  all  along 
— the  one  for  looks,  the  one  for  character — give  him  Joanna 
every  time,  with  her  red  and  brown  face,  and  thick  brown 
hair,  and  her  high,  deep  bosom,  and  sturdy,  comfortable 
waist  .  .  .  why  couldn't  he  have  had  Joanna,  instead  of 
what  he'd  got,  which  was  nothing?  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  Arthur  Alec  came  near  to  questioning  the  ways  of 
Providence.  Reckon  it  was  the  last  thing  he  would  ever  do 
for  her — this  going  away.  He  wa.sn't  likely  to  come  back, 
though  he  did  talk  of  it,  just  to  keep  uj)  their  spirits.  He 
would  probably  settle  down  in  the  shires — go  into  partner- 
ship with  his  brother — run  a  bigger  place  than  T)()nkcy 
Street,  than  Ansdore  even. 

"Well,  T  must  be  going  now.  There's  still  a  great  lot  of 
things  to  be  tidied  up." 

lie  rose,  awkwardly  setting  down  his  cup.     Joanna  rose 


238  JOANNA    GODDEN 

too.  The  sunset,  rusty  with  the  evening  sea-mist,  poured 
over  her  goodly  form  as  she  stood  against  the  window, 
making  its  outlines  dim  and  fiery  and  her  hair  like  a  burn- 
ing crown. 

"I  shall  miss  you,  Arthur." 

He  did  not  speak,  and  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"Goodbye." 

He  could  not  say  it — instead  he  pulled  her  towards  him 
by  the  hand  he  held. 

"Jo— I  must." 

"Arthur— no !" 

But  it  was  too  late — he  had  kissed  her. 

"That's  the  first  time  you  done  it,"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"Because  it's  the  last.     You  aren't  angry,  are  you?" 

"I  ? — no.  But,  Arthur,  you  mustn't  forget  you're  mar- 
ried to  Ellen." 

"Am  I  like  to  forget  it? — And  seeing  all  the  dunnamany 
kisses  she's  given  another  man,  reckon  she  won't  grudge  me 
this  one  poor  kiss  I've  given  the  woman  I've  loved  without 
clasp  or  kiss  for  fifteen  year." 

For  the  first  time  she  heard  in  his  voice  both  bitterness 
and  passion,  and  at  that  moment  the  man  himself  seemed 
curiously  to  come  alive  and  to  compel.  .  .  .  But  Joanna 
was  not  going  to  dally  with  temptation  in  the  unaccustomed 
shape  of  Arthur  Alee.     She  pushed  open  the  door. 

"Have  they  brought  round  Ranger? — Hi!  Peter  Crouch! 
— Yes,  there  he  is.    You'll  have  a  good  ride  home,  Arthur." 

"But  there'll  be  rain  tomorrow." 

"I  don't  think  it.     The  sky's  all  red  at  the  rims." 

"The  wind's  shifted." 

"So  it  has.  But  the  glass  is  high.  Reckon  it'll  hold  ofT 
till  you're  in  the  shires,  and  then  our  weather  won't  trouble 
you." 

She  watched  him  ride  off,  standing  in  the  doorway  till 
the  loops  of  the  Brodnyx  road  carried  him  into  the  rusty 
fog  that  was  coming  from  the  sea. 


PART  IV 
LAST  LOVE 


PART  IV 
LAST  LOVE 


§  1 

Time  passed  on,  healing  the  wounds  of  the  marsh.  At 
Donkey  Street,  tlie  neighbours  were  beginning  to  get  used 
to  young  lionisett  and  his  bride,  at  Rye  and  Lydd  and 
Romney  the  farmers  had  given  up  expecting  Arthur  Alee 
to  come  round  the  corner  on  his  grey  horse,  with  samples 
of  wheat  or  prices  of  tegs.  At  Ansdore,  too,  the  breach 
was  healed.  Joanna  and  Ellen  lived  quietly  together,  shar- 
ing their  common  life  without  explosions.  Joanna  had 
given  up  all  idea  of  "having  things  out"  with  Ellen.  There 
was  always  a  bit  of  pathos  about  Joanna's  surrenders,  and 
in  this  case  Ellen  had  certainly  beaten  her.  It  was  rather 
difficult  to  say  exactly  to  what  the  younger  sister  owed  her 
victory,  but  undoubtedly  she  had  won  it,  and  their  life  was 
in  a  measure  based  upon  it.  Joanna  accepted  her  sister — 
past  and  all ;  she  accepted  lur  little  calm  assumptions  of 
respectability  together  with  those  more  expected  tendencies 
towards  the  "French."  When  Ellen  had  first  come  back, 
she  had  been  surprised  and  resentful  to  see  how  much  she 
took  for  granted  in  the  way  of  acceptance,  not  only  from 
Joanna  but  from  the  neighbours.  According  to  her  ideas, 
Ellen  should  have  kept  in  shamed  seclusion  till  piiblic  opin- 
ion called  her  out  of  it,  and  she  had  been  alarmed  at  her 
asstmiptions,  fearing  rcbufT,  just  as  she  had  nlmo'^t  feared 
heaven's  lightning  stroke  for  that  demure  little  figure  in  her 
pew  on  Sunday,  murmuring  "Lord  have  mercy"  without 
tremor  or  blush. 

241 


242  JOANNA    GODDEN 

But  heaven  had  not  smitten  and  the  neighbours  had  not 
snubbed.  In  some  mysterious  way  Ellen  had  won  accept- 
ance from  the  latter,  whatever  her  secret  relations  with 
the  former  may  have  been.  The  stories  about  her  grew 
ever  more  and  more  charitable.  The  Woolpack  pronounced 
that  Arthur  Alee  would  not  have  gone  away  "if  it  had  been 
all  on  her  side,"  and  it  was  now  certainly  known  that  Mrs. 
Williams  had  been  at  San  Remo.  .  .  .  Ellen's  manner  was 
found  pleasing — "quiet  but  afTable."  Indeed,  in  this  re- 
spect she  had  much  improved.  The  Southlands  took  her 
up,  forgiving  her  treatment  of  their  boy,  now  comfortably 
married  to  the  daughter  of  a  big  Folkestone  shopkeeper. 
They  found  her  neither  brazen  nor  shamefaced — and  she'd 
been  as  shocked  as  any  honest  woman  at  Lady  Mountain's 
trial  in  the  Sunday  papers  ...  if  folk  only  knew  her  real 
story,  they'd  probably  find  .  .  . 

In  fact,  Ellen  was  determined  to  get  her  character  back. 

She  knew  within  herself  that  she  owed  a  great  deal  to 
Joanna's  protection — for  Joanna  was  the  chief  power  in  the 
parishes  of  Brodnyx  and  Pedlinge,  both  personally  and 
territorially.  Ellen  had  been  wise  beyond  the  wisdom  of 
despair  when  she  came  home.  She  was  not  unhappy  in  her 
life  at  Ansdore,  for  her  escapade  had  given  her  a  queer  ad- 
vantage over  her  sister,  and  she  now  found  that  she  could, 
to  a  certain  extent,  mould  the  household  routine  to  her 
comfort.  She  was  no  longer  entirely  dominated,  and  only 
a  small  amount  of  independence  was  enough  to  satisfy  her, 
a  bom  submitter,  to  whom  contrivance  was  more  than  rule. 
She  wanted  only  freedom  for  her  tastes  and  pleasures,  and 
Joanna  did  not  now  strive  to  impose  her  own  upon  her. 
Occasionally,  the  younger  woman  complained  of  her  lot, 
bound  to  a  man  whom  she  no  longer  cared  for,  wearing 
only  the  fetters  of  her  wifehood — she  still  hankered  for  a 
divorce,  though  Arthur  must  be  respondent.  This  always 
woke  Joanna  to  rage,  but  Ellen's  feelings  did  not  often  rise 
to  the  surface,  and  on  the  whole  the  sisters  were  happy  in 
their  life  together — more  peaceful  because  they  were  more 


JOANNA    GODDEN  243 

detached  than  in  the  old  days.  Ellen  invariably  wore  black, 
hoping  that  strangers  and  newcomers  would  take  her  for 
a  widow. 

This  she  actually  became  towards  the  close  of  the  year 
1910.  Arthur  did  a  fair  amount  of  hunting  with  his  brother 
in  the  shires,  and  one  day  his  horse  came  down  at  a  fence, 
throwing  him  badly  and  fracturing  his  skull.  He  died  the 
same  night  without  regaining  consciousness — death  had 
treated  him  better  on  the  whole  than  life,  for  he  died  with- 
out pain  or  indignity,  riding  to  hounds  like  any  squire.  He 
left  a  comfortable  little  fortune,  too — Donkey  Street  and 
its  two  hundred  acres — and  he  left  it  all  to  Joanna. 

Secretly  he  had  made  his  will  anew  soon  after  going  to 
the  shires,  and  in  it  he  had  indulged  himself,  ignoring 
reality  and  perhaps  duty.  Evidently  he  had  had  no  expec- 
tations of  a  return  to  married  life  with  Ellen,  and  in  this 
new  testament  he  ignored  her  entirely,  as  if  she  had  not 
been.  Joanna  was  his  wife,  inheriting  all  that  was  his,  of 
land  and  money  and  live  and  dead  stock — "My  true,  trusty 
friend,  Joanna  Godden." 

Ellen  was  furious,  and  Joanna  herself  was  a  little 
shocked.  She  understood  Arthur's  motives — she  guessed 
that  one  of  his  reasons  for  passing  over  Ellen  had  been  his 
anxiety  to  leave  her  sister  rlcpendcnt  on  her,  knowing  her 
fear  that  she  would  take  flight.  But  this  exaltation  of  her 
by  his  death  to  the  place  she  had  refused  to  occupy  during 
his  life,  gave  her  a  queer  sense  of  stnart  and  shame.  Eor 
the  first  time  it  struck  her  that  she  might  not  have  treated 
Arthur  quite  well.  .  .  . 

However,  she  did  not  sympathise  with  Ellen's  indig- 
nation— 

"You  shoulfln't  ought  to  have  expected  a  penny,  the  way 
you  treated  him." 

"I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't  have  left  me  at  least  some 
furniture,  seeing  there  was  about  five  hundred  pounds  of 
my  money  in  that  farm.    He's  done  rather  well  out  of  me 


244  JOANNA    GODDEN 

on  the  whole — making  me  no  allowance  whatever  when  he 
was  alive." 

"Because  I  wouldn't  let  him  make  it — I've  got  some  pride 
if  you  haven't." 

"Your  pride  doesn't  stop  you  taking  what  ought  to  have 
been  mine." 

"  'Ought  to'  ...  I  never  heard  such  words.  Not  that 
I'm  pleased  he  should  make  it  all  over  to  me,  but  it  ain't 
my  doing." 

Ellen  looked  at  her  fixedly  out  of  her  eyes  which  were 
like  the  shallow  floods. 

"Are  you  quite  sure?  Are  you  quite  sure,  Joanna,  that 
you  honestly  played  a  sister's  part  by  me  while  I  was  away  ?" 

"What  d'you  mean?" 

"I  mean,  Arthur  seems  to  have  got  a  lot  fonder  of  you 
while  I  was  away  than  he — er — seemed  to  be  before." 

Joanna  gaped  at  her. 

"Of  course  it  was  only  natural,"  continued  Ellen 
smoothly — "I  know  I  treated  him  badly — ^but  don't  you  think 
you  needn't  have  taken  advantage  of  that?" 

"Well,  I'm  beat  .  .  .  look  here,  Ellen  .  .  ,  that  man  was 
mine  from  the  first,  and  I  gave  him  over  to  you,  and  I 
never  took  him  back  nor  wanted  him,  neither." 

"How  generous  of  you,  Jo,  to  have  'given  him  over' 
to  me." 

A  little  maddening  smile  twisted  the  corners  of  her 
mouth,  and  Joanna  remembered  that  now  Arthur  was  dead 
and  there  was  no  hope  of  Ellen  going  back  to  him,  she  need 
not  spare  her  secret. 

"Yes,  I  gave  him  to  you,"  she  said  bluntly — "I  saw  you 
wanted  him,  and  I  didn't  want  him  myself,  so  I  said  to  him 
'Arthur,  look  here,  you  take  her' — and  he  said  to  me — 'I'd 
sooner  have  you,  Jo' — but  I  said,  'You  won't  have  me  even 
if  you  wait  till  the  moon's  cheese,  so  there's  no  good  hoping 
for  that.  You  take  the  little  sister  and  please  me' — and  he 
said,  'I'll  do  it  to  please  you,  Jo.'  That's  the  very  thing 
that  happened,  and  I'm  sorry  it  happened  now — and  I  never 


JOANNA   GODDEN  245 

told  you  before,  because  I  thought  it  ud  put  you  against 
him,  and  I  wanted  you  to  go  back  to  him,  being  his  wife; 
but  now  he's  dead,  and  you  may  as  well  know,  seeing  the 
upstart  notions  you've  got." 

She  looked  fiercely  at  Ellen,  to  watch  the  effect  of  the 
blow,  but  was  disconcerted  to  see  that  the  little  maddening 
smile  still  lingered.  There  were  dimples  at  the  flexing 
corners  of  her  sister's  mouth,  and  now  they  were  little  wells 
of  disbelieving  laughter.  Ellen  did  not  believe  her — she 
had  told  her  long-guarded  secret  and  her  sister  did  not 
believe  it.  She  thought  it  just  something  Joanna  had  made 
up  to  salve  her  pride — and  nothing  would  ever  make  her 
believe  it,  for  she  was  a  woman  who  had  been  loved  and 
knew  that  she  was  well  worth  lovins:. 


§2 

Both  Ellen  and  Joanna  were  a  little  afraid  that  Arthur's 
treatment  of  his  widow  might  disestablish  her  in  public 
opinion.  People  would  think  that  she  must  have  behaved 
unaccountable  badly  to  be  served  out  like  that.  But  the 
effects  were  not  so  disastrous  as  might  have  been  expected. 
Ellen,  poor  and  forlorn,  in  her  graceful  weeds,  without 
complaining  or  resentful  words,  soon  won  the  neighbours' 
compassion.  It  wasn't  right  of  Alee  to  have  treated  her  so 
— showed  an  unforgiving  nature — if  only  the  real  story 
could  be  known,  most  likely  folks  would  see.  .  .  .  There 
was  also  a  mild  scandal  at  his  treatment  of  Joanna.  "Well, 
even  if  he  loved  her  all  the  time  when  he  was  married  to 
her  sister,  he  needn't  have  been  so  brazen  about  it.  .  .  . 
Always  cared  for  Joanna  more'n  he  ought  and  showed  it 
more'n  he  ought." 

Joanna  was  not  worricrl  by  these  remarks — she  brushed 
them  aside.  Tier  character  was  gossip-proof,  whereas 
Ellen's  was  not.  therefore  it  was  best  that  the  stones  should 
be  thrown  at  her  rather  than  at  her  sister.  She  at  once 
went  practically  to  work  with  Donkey  Street.     She  did  not 


246  JOANNA   GODDEN 

wish  to  keep  it — it  was  too  remote  from  Ansdore  to  be 
easily  workable,  and  she  was  content  with  her  own  thriving 
estate.  She  sold  Donkey  Street  with  all  its  stock,  and  de- 
cided to  lay  out  the  money  in  improvements  of  her  land. 
She  would  drain  the  water-logged  innings  by  the  Kent 
Ditch,  she  would  buy  a  steam  plough  and  make  the  neigh- 
bourhood sit  up — she  would  start  cattle-breeding.  She  had 
no  Qualms  in  thus  spending  the  money  on  the  farm,  instead 
of  on  Ellen.  Her  sister  rather  plaintively  pointed  out  that 
the  invested  capital  would  have  brought  her  in  a  comfort- 
able small  income — "and  then  I  needn't  be  such  a  burden 
to  you,  Joanna  dear." 

"You  ain't  a  burden  to  me,"  said  Joanna. 

She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  Ellen  becoming  independ- 
ent and  leaving  her.  But  Ellen  was  far  better  contented 
with  her  life  at  home  than  she  wisely  let  it  appear.  Ans- 
dore was  a  manor  now — the  largest  estate  not  only  in 
Brodnyx  and  Pedlinge,  but  on  Walland  Marsh ;  indeed  the 
whole  of  the  Three  Marshes  had  little  to  beat  it  with. 
Moreover,  Ellen  was  beginning  to  get  her  own  way  in  the 
house — her  bedroom  was  no  longer  a  compulsory  bower  of 
roses,  but  softly  cream-coloured  and  purple-hung.  She  had 
persuaded  Joanna  to  have  a  bathroom  fitted  up,  with  hot 
and  cold  water  and  other  glories,  and  though  she  had  been 
unable  to  induce  her  to  banish  her  father's  Bible  and  the 
stuffed  owls  from  the  parlour,  she  had  been  allowed  to 
supplement — and  practically  annihilate — them  with  the  no- 
torious black  cushions  from  Donkey  Street.  Joanna  was  a 
little  proud  to  have  these  famous  decorations  on  the  prem- 
ises, to  be  indoors  what  her  yellow  waggons  were  outdoors, 
symbols  of  daring  and  progress. 

On  the  whole,  this  substantial  house,  with  its  wide  lands, 
respectable  furniture  and  swarming  servants,  was  one  to  be 
proud  of.  Ellen's  position  as  Squire  Joanna  Godden's  sister 
was  much  better  than  if  she  were  living  by  herself  in  some 
small  place  on  a  small  income.  Her  brief  adventure  into 
what  she  thought  was  a  life  of  fashionable  gaiety  had  dis- 


JOANNA   GODDEN  247 

couraged  and  disillusioned  her — she  was  slowly  slipping 
back  into  the  conventions  of  her  class  and  surroundings. 
Ansdore  was  no  longer  either  a  prison  or  a  refuge,  it  was 
beginning  to  be  a  home — not  permanent,  of  course,  for  she 
was  now  a  free  woman  and  would  marry  again,  but  a  good 
home  to  rest  in  and  re-establish  herself. 

Thanks  to  Ellen's  contrivance  and  to  the  progress  of 
Joanna's  own  ambition — rising  out  of  its  fulfilment  in  the 
sphere  of  the  material  into  the  sphere  of  style  and  manners 
— the  sisters  now  lived  the  lives  of  two  well-to-do  ladies. 
They  had  late  dinner  every  night — only  soup  and  meat  and 
pudding,  still  definitely  neither  supper  nor  high  tea.  Joanna 
changed  for  it  into  smart,  stiff  silk  blouses,  with  a  great 
deal  of  lace  and  guipure  about  them,  while  Ellen  wore  a 
rest-gown  of  drifting  black  charmeuse.  Mene  Tekel  was 
promoted  from  the  dairy  to  be  Ansdore's  first  parlourmaid, 
and  wore  a  cap  and  apron,  and  waited  at  table.  Ellen 
would  have  liked  to  keep  Mene  Tekel  in  her  place  and 
engage  a  smart  town  girl,  whose  hands  were  not  the  colour 
of  beet-roots  and  whose  breathing  could  not  be  heard 
through  a  closed  door ;  but  Joanna  stood  firm — Mene  had 
been  her  faithful  servant  for  more  than  seven  years,  and  it 
wasn't  right  that  she  should  have  a  girl  from  the  town  pro- 
moted over  her.  P.csifles,  Joanna  did  not  like  town  girls — 
with  town  speech  ihnt  rebuked  her  own  and  white  hands 
that  made  her  want  to  ]n\t  her  own  large  brown  ones  under 
the  table. 

Early  the  next  year  Mr.  Praft  faded  out.  TTc  could  not 
be  said  to  have  done  anything  so  drrimatic  as  to  die,  though 
ihe  green  marsh-lnrf  of  P.rodnyx  churchynrd  was  broken 
to  make  him  a  bed,  nnrl  llv  little  bell  rocked  in  the  bosom  of 
the  drunken  Victorian  widow  who  was  P.rodnyx  church- 
steeple,  sending  a  forlorn  note  out  over  the  marsh.  Various 
Attnts  in  various  stages  of  r'^signed  poverty  bore  off  his 
family  to  separate  destinations,  and  the  great  Rectory  house 


248  JOANNA    GODDEN 

which  had  for  so  long  mocked  his  two  hundred  a  year,  stood 
empty,  waiting  to  swallow  up  its  next  victim. 

Only  in  Joanna  Godden's  breast  did  any  stir  remain.  For 
her  at  least  the  fading  out  of  Mr.  Pratt  had  been  drama, 
the  final  scene  of  her  importance;  for  it  was  now  her  task 
to  appoint  his  successor  in  the  living  of  Brodnyx  with 
Pedlinge.  Ever  since  she  had  found  out  that  she  could  not 
get  rid  of  Mr.  Pratt,  she  had  been  in  terror  lest  this  crown- 
ing triumph  might  be  denied  her,  and  the  largeness  of  her 
funeral  wreath  and  the  lavishness  of  her  mourning — extin- 
guishing all  the  relations  in  their  dyed  blacks — had  testified 
to  the  warmth  of  her  gratitude  to  the  late  Rector  for  so 
considerately  dying. 

She  felt  exceedingly  important,  and  the  feeling  was  in- 
creased by  the  applications  she  received  for  the  living. 
Clergymen  wrote  from  different  parts  of  the  country;  they 
told  her  that  they  were  orthodox — as  if  she  had  imagined 
a  clergyman  could  be  otherwise — that  they  were  acceptable 
preachers,  that  they  were  good  with  Boy  Scouts.  One  or 
two  she  interviewed  and  disliked,  because  they  had  bad 
teeth  or  large  families — one  or  two  turned  the  tables  on 
her  and  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  a  living  en- 
cumbered by  so  large  a  Rectory  and  so  small  an  endowment. 
Joanna  felt  insulted,  though  she  was  not  responsible  for 
either.  She  resolved  not  to  consider  any  applicants,  but  to 
make  her  own  choice  outside  their  ranks.  This  was  a 
difficult  matter,  for  her  sphere  was  hardly  clerical,  and  she 
knew  no  clergy  except  those  on  the  marsh.  None  of  these 
she  liked,  because  they  were  for  the  most  part  elderly  and 
went  about  on  bicycles,  also  she  wanted  to  dazzle  her  society 
with  a  new  importation. 

The  Archdeacon  wrote  to  her,  suggesting  that  she  might 
be  glad  of  some  counsel  in  filling  the  vacancy,  and  giving 
her  the  names  of  two  men  whom  he  thought  suitable. 
Joanna  was  furious — she  would  brook  no  interference  from 
Archdeacons,  and  wrote  the  gentleman  a  letter  which  must 
have  been  unique  in  his  archidiaconal  experience.     All  the 


JOANNA    GODDEN  249 

same  she  began  to  feel  worried — she  was  beginning  to  doubt 
if  she  had  the  same  qualifications  for  choosing  a  clergyman 
as  she  had  for  choosing  a  looker  or  a  dairy-girl.  She  knew 
the  sort  of  man  she  liked  as  a  man,  and  more  vaguely  the 
sort  of  man  she  liked  as  a  parson,  she  also  was  patriotically 
anxious  to  find  somebody  adequate  to  the  honours  and 
obligations  of  the  living.  Nobody  she  saw  or  heard  of 
seemed  to  come  up  to  her  double  standard  of  man  and  min- 
ister, and  she  was  beginning  to  wonder  to  what  extent  she 
could  compromise  her  pride  by  writing — not  to  the  Arch- 
deacon, but  over  his  head  to  the  Bishop — when  she  saw  in 
the  local  paper  that  Father  Lawrence,  of  the  Society  of 
Sacred  Pity,  was  preaching  a  course  of  sermons  in  Mar- 
lingate. 

Immediately  memories  came  back  to  her,  so  far  and  pale 
that  they  were  more  like  the  memories  of  dreams  than  of 
anything  which  had  actually  happened.  She  saw  a  small 
dark  figure  standing  with  its  back  to  the  aw\ikening  light 
and  bidding  godspeed  to  all  that  was  vital  and  beautiful  and 
more-than-herself  in  her  life.  .  .  .  "Go,  Christian  soul" — 
while  she  in  the  depths  of  her  broken  heart  had  cried  "stay, 
slay !"  But  he  had  obeyed  the  Priest  rather  than  the  Lover, 
he  had  gone  and  not  stayed  .  .  .  and  afterwards  the  priest 
had  tried  to  hold  him  for  her  in  futurity — "think  of  Martin, 
l)ray  for  Martin,"  but  the  Lover  had  let  him  slip,  because 
she  could  not  think  and  dared  not  pray,  and  he  had  fallen 
back  from  her  into  his  silent  home  in  the  past. 

The  old  wound  could  still  hurt,  for  a  moment  it  seemed 
as  if  her  whole  body  was  pain  because  of  it.  Successful, 
important,  thriving  Joanna  Goddcn  could  still  suffer  be- 
cause eight  years  ago  she  had  not  been  allowed  to  make  the 
sacrifice  of  all  that  she  now  held  so  triumphantly.  This 
mere  namo  of  Martin's  brother  had  pricked  her  heart,  and 
she  sufldenly  wanted  to  get  closer  to  the  past  than  she  couM 
get  with  her  memorial-card  and  photograph  and  tombston^. 
Even  Sir  Harry  Trevor,  ironic  link  with  faithful  love,  was 
gone  now — there  was  only  Lawrence.     She  would  like  to 


250  JOANNA    GODDEN 

see  him — not  to  talk  to  him  of  Martin,  she  couldn't  bear 
that  and  there  would  be  something  vaguely  improper  about 
it — but  he  was  a  clergyman,  for  all  he  disguised  the  fact  by 
calling  himself  a  priest,  and  she  would  ofter  him  the  living 
of  Brodnyx  with  Pedlinge  and  let  the  neighbourhood  sit  up 
as  much  as  it  liked. 


§4 

Father  Lawrence  came  to  see  her  one  April  day  when  the 
young  lambs  were  bleating  on  the  sheltered  innings  and 
making  bright  clean  spots  of  white  beside  the  ewes'  fog- 
soiled  fleeces,  when  the  tegs  had  come  down  from  their 
winter  keep  inland,  and  the  sunset  fell  in  long  golden  slats 
across  the  first  water-green  grass  of  Spring.  The  years  had 
aged  him  more  than  they  had  aged  Joanna — the  marks  on 
her  face  were  chiefly  weather  marks,  tokens  of  her  exposure 
to  marsh  suns  and  winds,  and  of  her  own  ruthless  applica- 
tions of  yellow  soap.  Behind  them  was  a  little  of  the  hard- 
ness which  comes  when  a  woman  has  to  fight  many  battles 
and  has  won  her  victories  largely  through  the  sacrifice  of 
her  resources.  The  lines  on  his  face  were  mostly  those  of 
his  own  humour  and  other  people's  sorrows,  he  had  exposed 
himself  perhaps  not  enough  to  the  weather  and  too  much  to 
the  world,  so  that  where  she  had  fine  lines  and  a  funda- 
mental hardness,  he  had  heavy  lines  like  the  furrows  of  a 
ploughshare,  and  a  softness  beneath  them  like  the  fruitful 
soil  that  the  share  turns  up. 

Joanna  received  him  in  state,  with  Arthur  Alce's  teapot 
and  her  best  pink  silk  blouse  with  the  lace  insertion. 
Ellen,  for  fairly  obvious  reasons,  preferred  not  to  be  pres- 
ent. Joanna  was  terrified  lest  he  should  begin  to  talk  of 
Martin,  so  after  she  had  conformed  to  local  etiquette  by 
enquiring  after  his  health  and  abusing  the  weather,  she 
offered  him  the  living  of  Brodnyx-with-Pedlinge  and  a  slice 
of  cake  almost  in  the  same  breath. 

She  was  surprised  and  a  little  hurt  when  he  refused  the 


JOANNA    GODDEN  251 

former.  As  a  member  of  a  religious  community  he  could 
not  hold  preferment,  and  he  had  no  vocation  to  settled 
Christianity. 

"I  shouldn't  be  at  all  good  as  a  country  clergyman.  Be- 
sides, Jo" — he  had  at  once  slipped  into  the  brotherliness  of 
their  old  relations — "I  know  you;  you  wouldn't  like  my 
ways.  You'd  always  be  up  at  me,  teaching  me  better,  and 
then  I  should  be  up  at  you,  and  possibly  we  shouldn't  stay 
quite  such  good  friends  as  we  are  now." 

"I  shouldn't  mind  your  ways.  Reckon  it  might  do  the 
folks  round  here  a  proper  lot  of  good  to  be  prayed  over 
same  as  you — I  mean  I'd  like  to  see  a  few  of  'em  prayed 
over  when  they  were  dying  and  couldn't  help  themselves. 
Serve  them  right,  I  say,  for  not  praying  when  they're  alive, 
and  some  who  won't  put  their  noses  in  church  except  for  a 
harvest  thanksgiving.  No,  if  you'll  only  come  here,  Lau- 
rence, you  may  do  what  you  like  in  the  way  of  prayers  and 
such.  I  shan't  interfere  as  long  as  you  don't  trouble  us 
with  the  Pope,  whom  I  never  could  abide  after  all  I've 
heard  of  him,  wanting  to  blow  up  the  Established  Church 
in  London  and  making  people  kiss  his  toe,  which  I'd  never 
do,  not  if  he  was  to  burn  me  alive." 

"Well,  if  that's  the  only  limit  to  your  toleration  I  think 
I  could  help  you,  even  though  I  can't  come  myself.  I  know 
one  or  two  excellent  priests  who  would  do  endless  good  in 
a  place  like  this." 

Joanna  suddenly  felt  her  imagination  gloat  and  kindle  at 
the  thought  of  Brodnyx  and  P'edlingc  compelled  to  holiness 
— all  those  wicked  old  men  who  wouldn't  go  to  church,  but 
expected  their  Christmas  puddings  just  the  same,  those  hob- 
bledehoys who  loafed  against  gate-posts  the  whole  of  Sun- 
day, those  vain  hussies  who  giggled  behind  their  handker- 
chiefs all  the  service  through — it  would  be  fine  to  see  them 
hustled  about  and  taught  their  manners.  ...  it  would  be 
valiant  sport  to  see  'cm  made  to  behave,  as  Mr.  Pratt  had 
never  been  able  to  make  them.  She  with  her  half-crown  in 
the    plate    and    her   quarterly    communion    need    have    no 


252  JOANNA    GODDEN 

qualms,  and  she  would  enjoy  seeing  the  fear  of  God  put 
into  other  folk. 

So  Lawrence's  visit  was  fruitful  after  all — a  friend  of 
his  had  been  ordered  to  give  up  his  hard  work  in  a  slum 
parish  and  find  a  country  vocation.  He  promised  that  this 
friend  should  write  to  Joanna. 

"But  I  must  see  him,  too,"  she  said. 

They  were  standing  at  the  open  door,  and  the  religious  in 
his  black  habit  was  like  a  cut  paper  silhouette  against  the 
long  streaks  of  fading  purple  cloud. 

"I  remember,"  he  said,  "that  you  always  were  particular 
about  a  man's  looks.  How  Martin's  must  have  delighted 
you  1" 

His  tongue  did  not  falter  over  the  loved,  forbidden  name 
— he  spoke  it  quite  naturally  and  conversationally,  as  if 
glad  that  he  could  introduce  it  at  last  into  their  business. 

Joanna's  body  stiffened,  but  he  did  not  see  it,  for  he  was 
gazing  at  the  young  creeper's  budding  trail  over  the  door. 

"I  hope  you  have  a  good  photograph  of  him,"  he  con- 
tinued— "I  know  that  a  very  good  photograph  was  taken  of 
him  a  year  before  he  died — much  better  than  any  of  the 
earlier  ones.    I  hope  you  have  one  of  those." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Joanna  gruffly.  From  shock  she  had 
passed  into  a  thrilling  anger.  How  calmly  he  had  spoken 
the  dear  name,  how  unblushingly  he  had  said  the  outra- 
geous word  "died" !  How  brazen,  thoughtless,  cruel  he  was 
about  it  all ! — tearing  the  veil  from  her  sorrow,  talking  as  if 
her  dead  lived  .  .  .  she  felt  exposed,  indecent,  and  she 
hated  him,  all  the  more  because  mixed  with  her  hatred  was 
a  kind  of  disapproving  envy,  a  resentment  that  he  should 
be  free  to  remember  where  she  was  bound  to  forget.  .  .  . 

He  saw  her  hand  clench  slowly  at  her  side,  and  for  the 
first  time  became  aware  of  her  state  of  mind. 

"Goodbye,  Jo,"  he  said  kindly—Til  tell  Palmer  to  write 
to  you." 

"Thanks,  but  I  don't  promise  to  take  him,"  was  her  un- 
gracious fling. 


JOANNA   GODDEN  253 

"No — why  should  you?  And  of  course  he  may  have 
already  made  his  plans.  Goodbye,  and  thank  you  for  your 
great  kindness  in  ofifering  the  living  to  me — it  was  very 
noble  of  you  considering  what  your  family  has  suffered 
from  mine." 

He  had  carefully  avoided  all  reference  to  his  father,  but 
he  now  realised  that  he  had  kept  the  wrong  silence.  It  was 
the  man  who  had  brought  her  happiness,  not  the  man  who 
had  brought  her  shame,  that  she  was  unable  to  speak  of. 

"Oh,  don't  you  think  of  that — it  wasn't  your  doing" — 
she  melted  towards  him  now  she  had  a  genuine  cause  for 
indignation — "and  we've  come  through  it  better  than  we 
hoped,  and  some  of  us  deserved." 

Lawrence  gave  her  an  odd  smile,  which  made  his  face 
with  its  innumerable  lines  and  pouches  look  rather  like  a 
gargoyle's.  Then  he  walked  off  bareheaded  into  the  twi- 
light. 

Ellen  was  intensely  relieved  when  she  heard  that  he  had 
refused  the  living,  and  a  little  indignant  with  Joanna  for 
having  offered  it  to  him. 

"You  don't  seem  to  realise  how  very  awkward  it  would 
have  been  for  me — I  don't  want  to  have  anything  more  to 
do  with  that  family." 

"I  daresay  not,"  said  Joanna  grimly,  "but  that  ain't  no 
reason  why  this  parish  shouldn't  have  a  good  parson.  Law- 
rence ud  have  made  the  people  projicrly  mind  their  ways. 
And  it  ain't  becoming  in  you,  I'>llen  Alee,  to  let  your  own 
misdoings  stand  between  folk  and  what's  good  for  'em." 

Ellen  accepted  the  rebuke  good-humouredly.  She  had 
grown  more  mellow  of  late,  and  was  settling  into  her  life  at 
Ansdore  as  she  had  never  settled  since  she  went  to  school. 
She  relished  her  widowed  state,  for  it  involved  the  delec- 
table business  of  looking  about  for  a  second  busbanfl.  She 
was  resolved  to  act  with  great  deliberation.    This  time  there 


254  JOANNA   GODDEN 

should  be  no  hustling  into  matrimony.  It  seemed  to  her 
now  as  if  that  precipitate  talcing  of  Arthur  Alee  had  been 
at  the  bottom  of  all  her  troubles ;  she  had  been  only  a  poor 
little  schoolgirl,  a  raw  contriver,  hurling  herself  out  of  the 
frying-pan  of  Ansdore's  tyranny  into  the  fire  of  Donkey 
Street's  dulness.  She  knew  better  now — besides,  the  in- 
creased freedom  and  comfort  of  her  conditions  did  not  in- 
volve the  same  urgency  of  escape. 

She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  not  take  anyone  o£ 
the  farming  classes ;  this  time  she  would  marry  a  gentleman 
— but  a  decent  sort.  She  did  not  enjoy  all  her  memories 
of  Sir  Harry  Trevor.  She  would  not  take  up  with  that 
kind  of  man  again,  any  more  than  with  a  dull  fellow  like 
poor  Arthur. 

She  had  far  better  opportunities  than  in  the  old  days. 
The  exaltation  of  Ansdore  from  farm  to  manor  had  turned 
many  keys,  and  Joanna  now  received  calls  from  doctors' 
and  clergymen's  wives,  who  had  hitherto  ignored  her  ex- 
cept commercially.  It  was  at  Fairfield  Vicarage  that  Ellen 
met  the  wife  of  a  major  at  Lydd  camp,  and  through  her 
came  to  turn  the  heads  of  various  subalterns.  The  young 
officers  from  Lydd  paid  frequent  visits  to  Ansdore,  which 
was  a  novelty  to  both  the  sisters,  who  hitherto  had  had  no 
dealings  with  military  society.  Ellen  was  far  too  prudent 
to  engage  herself  to  any  of  these  boys ;  she  waited  for  a 
major  or  a  captain  at  least.  But  she  enjoyed  their  society, 
and  knew  that  their  visits  gave  her  consequence  in  the 
neighbourhood.  She  was  invariably  discreet  in  her  be- 
haviour, and  was  much  reproached  by  them  for  her  cold- 
ness, which  they  attributed  to  Joanna,  who  watched  over 
her  like  a  dragon,  convinced  that  the  moment  she  relaxed 
her  guard  her  sister  would  inevitably  return  to  her  wicked 
past. 

Ellen  would  have  felt  sore  and  insulted  if  she  had  not 
the  comfort  of  knowing  in  her  heart  that  Joanna  was 
secretly  envious — a  little  hurt  that  these  personable  young 
men  came  to  Ansdore  for  Ellen  alone.    They  liked  Joanna, 


JOANNA   GODDEN  255 

in  spite  of  her  interference ;  they  said  she  was  a  good  sort, 
and  spoke  of  her  among  themselves  as  "the  old  girl"  and 
"Joanna  God-dam."  But  none  of  them  thought  of  turning 
from  Ellen  to  her  sister — she  was  too  weather-beaten  for 
them,  too  big  and  bouncing — over-ripe.  Ellen  pale  as  a 
flower,  with  wide  lips  like  rose-leaves  and  narrow,  brood- 
ing eyes,  with  her  languor,  and  faint  suggestions  of  the 
exotic,  all  the  mystery  with  which  fate  had  chosen  to  veil 
the  common  secret  which  was  Ellen  Alee  .  .  .  she  could 
now  have  the  luxury  of  pitying  her  sister,  of  seeing  her- 
self possessed  of  what  her  tyrant  Joanna  had  not,  and 
longed  for.  .  .  .  Slowly  she  was  gaining  the  advantage, 
her  side  of  the  wheel  was  mounting  while  Joanna's  went 
down  ;  in  spite  of  the  elder  woman's  success  and  substance 
the  younger  was  unmistakably  winning  ascendancy  over  her. 

§6 

PTer  pity  made  her  kind.  She  no  longer  squabbled,  com- 
plained or  resented.  She  took  Joanna's  occasionally  insult- 
ing behaviour  in  good  part.  She  even  wished  that  she 
would  marry — not  one  of  the  subalterns,  for  they  were  not 
her  sort,  but  some  decent  small  squire  or  parson.  When  the 
new  Rector  first  came  to  Brodnyx  she  had  great  hopes  of 
fixing  a  match  between  him  and  Jo — for  Ellen  was  now  so 
respectable  that  she  had  become  a  matchmaker.  But  she 
was  disappointed — indeed  they  both  were,  for  Joanna  had 
liked  the  looks  of  Mr.  Pratt's  successor,  and  though  she 
did  not  go  so  far  as  to  dream  of  matrimony — which  was 
still  below  her  horizons — she  would  have  much  appreciated 
his  wooing. 

But  it  soon  became  known  that  the  new  "Rector  had 
strange  views  on  the  subject  of  clerical  marriage — in  fact, 
he  shocked  his  patron  in  many  ways.  He  was  a  larpje, 
heavy,  pnlc-faced  young  man,  with  strange,  sleek  qualities 
that  appealed  to  her  throuj::jh  their  unaccustomcdness.  .  .  . 
But  he  was  scarcely  a  sleek  man  in  office,  and  under  his 


256  JOANNA   GODDEN 

drawling,  lethargic  manner  there  was  an  energy  that 
struck  her  as  shocking  and  out  of  place.  He  was  like 
Lawrence,  speaking  forbidden  words  and  of  hidden  things. 
In  church  he  preached  embarrassing  perfections — she  could 
no  longer  feel  that  she  had  attained  the  limits  of  church- 
manship  with  her  weekly  half  crown  and  her  quarterly 
communion.  He  turned  her  young  people's  heads  with 
strange  glimpses  of  beauty  and  obligation. 

In  fact,  poor  Joanna  was  deprived  of  the  spectacle  she 
had  looked  forward  to  with  such  zest — that  of  a  parish 
made  to  amend  itself  while  she  looked  on  from  the  detach- 
ment of  her  own  high  standard.  She  was  made  to  feel 
just  as  uncomfortable  as  any  wicked  old  man  or  giggling 
huzzy.  .  .  .  She  was  all  the  more  aggrieved  because,  though 
Mr.  Palmer  had  displeased  her,  she  could  not  get  rid  of  him 
as  she  would  have  got  rid  of  her  looker  in  the  same  circum- 
stances. "If  I  take  a  looker  and  he  don't  please  me,  I 
can  sack  him — the  gal  I  engage  I  can  get  shut  of  at  a 
month's  warning,  but  a  parson  seemingly  is  the  only  kind 
you  can  put  in  and  not  put  out." 

Then  to  crown  all,  he  took  away  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn 
from  their  eternal  dance  above  the  Altar  of  God,  and  in 
their  place  he  put  tall  candles,  casting  queer  red  gleams 
into  daylight.  .  .  .  Joanna  could  bear  no  more ;  she  swal- 
lowed her  pride  which  for  the  first  few  months  of  inno- 
vation had  made  her  treat  the  new  Rector  merely  with 
distant  rudeness,  and  descended  upon  him  in  the  three 
rooms  of  Brodnyx  Rectory  which  he  inhabited  with  cheer- 
ful contempt  of  the  rest  of  its  howling  vastness. 

She  emerged  from  the  encounter  strangely  subdued.  Mr. 
Palmer  had  been  polite,  even  sympathetic,  but  he  had  plain- 
ly shown  her  the  indifference  (to  use  no  cruder  term)  that 
he  felt  for  her  as  an  ecclesiastical  authority.  He  was  not 
going  to  put  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  back  in  their  old 
place,  they  belonged  to  a  byegone  age  which  was  now  for- 
gotten, to  a  bad  old  language  which  had  lost  its  meaning. 
The  utmost  he  would  do  was  to  consent  to  hang  them  up 


JOANNA    GODDEN  257 

over  the  door,  so  that  they  could  bless  Joanna's  going  out 
and  coming  in.     With  this  she  had  to  be  content. 

Poor  Joanna !  The  episode  was  more  than  a  passing  out- 
rage and  humiliation — it  was  ominous,  it  gave  her  a  queer 
sense  of  downfall.  With  her  beloved  symbol,  something 
which  was  part  of  herself  seemed  also  to  have  been  dis- 
^-Qssessed.  She  became  conscious  that  she  was  losing 
authority.  She  realised  that  for  long  she  had  been  weak- 
ening in  regard  to  Ellen,  and  now  she  was  unable  to  stand 
up  to  this  heavy,  sleek  young  man  whom  her  patronage 
had  appointed.  .  .  .  The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  had  from 
childhood  been  her  sign  of  power — they  were  her  theology 
in  oleograph,  they  stood  for  the  Church  of  England  as  by 
Law  Established,  large  Rectory  houses,  respectable  and 
respectful  clergymen,  "dearly  beloved  brethren"  on  Sunday 
mornings,  and  a  nice  nap  after  dinner.  And  now  they  were 
gone,  and  in  their  place  was  a  queer  Jesuitry  of  kyries  and 
candles,  and  a  gospel  which  kicked  and  goaded  and  would 
not  allow  one  to  sleep.  .  .  . 


It  began  to  be  noticed  at  the  Wool  pack  that  Joanna  was 
losing  heart.  "She's  lost  her  spring,"  they  said  at  the  bar — 
"she's  got  all  she  wanted,  and  now  .she's  feeling  dull" — 
"she's  never  had  what  she  wanted  and  now  she's  feeling 
tired" — "Her  sister's  beat  her  and  Parson's  beat  her — 
she  can't  be  properly  herself."  There  was  some  talk  about 
making  her  an  honorary  member  of  the  Farmers'  Club, 
but  it  never  got  beyond  talk — the  traditions  of  that  exclu- 
sive body  were  too  strong  to  admit  her  even  now. 

To  Joanna  it  seemed  as  if  life  had  newly  and  powerfully 
armed  itself  against  her.  Her  love  for  Ellen  was  making 
her  soft,  she  was  letting  her  sister  rule.  And  not  only  at 
home  but  abroad  she  was  losing  her  power.  Both  Church 
and  State  had  taken  to  themselves  new  arrogances.  The 
Church   had  lost   its   comfortable   atmosphere   of    Sunday 


258  JOANNA   GODDEN 

beef — and  now  the  State,  which  hitherto  had  existed  only 
for  that  most  excellent  purpose  of  making  people  behave 
themselves,  had  lifted  itself  up  against  Joanna  Godden. 

Lloyd  George's  Finance  Act  had  caught  her  in  its  toils, 
she  was  being  overwhelmed  with  terrible  forms  and  sched- 
ules, searching  into  her  profits,  making  strange  enquiries 
as  to  minerals,  muddling  her  with  long  words.  Then  out 
of  all  the  muddle  and  welter  finally  emerged  the  startling 
fact  that  the  Government  expected  to  have  twenty  per 
cent,  of  her  profits  on  the  sale  of  Donkey  Street. 

She  was  indignant  and  furious.  She  considered  that  the 
Government  had  been  grossly  treacherous,  unjust  and  dis- 
respectful to  poor  Arthur's  memory.  It  was  Arthur  who 
had  done  so  well  with  his  land  that  she  had  been  able  to 
sell  it  to  Honisett  at  such  a  valiant  price.  She  had  spent 
all  the  money  on  improvements,  too — she  was  not  like  some 
people  who  bought  motor  cars  and  took  trips  to  Paris.  She 
had  not  bought  a  motor  car  but  a  motor  plough,  the  only 
one  in  the  district — the  Government  could  come  and  see 
it  themselves  if  they  liked.     It  was  well  worth  looking  at. 

Thus  she  delivered  herself  to  young  Edward  Huxtable, 
who  now  managed  his  father's  business  at  Rye. 

"But  I'm  afraid  it's  all  fair  and  square,  Miss  Joanna," 
said  her  lawyer — "there's  no  doubt  about  the  land's  value 
or  what  you  sold  it  for,  and  I  don't  see  that  you  are  en- 
titled to  any  exemption." 

"Why  not  ?— if  I'm  not  entitled,  who  is  ?" 

Joanna  sat  looking  very  large  and  flushed  in  the  Huxtable 
office  in  Watchbell  Street.  She  felt  almost  on  the  verge 
of  tears,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  the  victim  of 
the  grossest  injustice  which  also  involved  the  grossest  dis- 
respect to  poor  Arthur,  who  would  turn  in  his  grave  if 
he  knew  that  the  Government  were  trying  to  take  his  legacy 
from  her. 

"What  are  lawyers  for?"  she  continued  hotly.  "You  can 
turn  most  things  inside  out — why  can't  you  do  this?  Can't 
I  go  to  County  Court  about  it  ?" 


JOANNA   GODDEN  259 

Edward  Huxtable  consulted  the  act.  ..."  'Notice  of 
objection  may  be  served  on  the  Commissioners  within  sixty- 
days.  If  they  do  not  allow  the  objection,  the  petitioner 
may  appeal  to  a  referee  under  the  act,  and  an  appeal  by 
either  the  petitioner  or  the  Commissioners  lies  from  the 
referee  to  the  High  Court,  or  where  the  site  value  does 
not  exceed  £500,  to  the  County  Court.'  I  suppose  yours 
is  worth  more  than  £500?'' 

"I  should  just  about  think  it  is — it's  worth  something 
more  like  five  thousand  if  the  truth  was  known." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  enlarge  on  that.  Do  you  think  it 
worth  while  to  serve  an  objection?  No  doubt  there  are 
grounds  on  which  we  could  appeal,  but  they  aren't  very 
good,  and  candidly  I  think  we'd  lose.  It  would  cost  you 
a  great  deal  of  money,  too,  before  you'd  finished." 

"I  don't  care  about  that.  I'm  not  going  to  sit  down 
quiet  and  have  my  rightful  belongings  taken  from  me." 

Edward  Huxtable  considered  that  he  had  done  his  duty 
in  warning  Joanna — lots  of  lawyers  wouldn't  have  troubled 
to  do  that — and  after  all  the  old  girl  had  heaps  of  money 
to  lose.    She  might  as  well  have  her  fun  and  he  his  fee. 

"Well,  anyhow  we'll  go  as  far  as  the  Commissioners. 
If  I  were  you,  I  shouldn't  apply  for  total  exemption,  but 
for  a  rebate.  We  might  do  something  with  allowances. 
Let  me  see,  what  did  you  sell  for?" 

He  finally  prepared  an  involved  case,  partly  depending 
on  the  death  duties  that  had  already  been  paid  when 
Joanna  inherited  Alce's  farm,  and  which  he  said  ought  to 
be  considered  in  calculating  increment  value.  Joanna  would 
not  have  confessed  for  worlds  that  she  did  not  understand 
the  grounds  of  her  appeal,  though  she  wished  Edward 
Huxtable  would  let  her  make  at  least  some  reference  to 
her  steam  tractor,  and  thus  win  her  victory  on  moral 
grounds,  instead  of  just  through  some  lawyer's  mess.  But, 
moral  appeal  or  lawyer's  mess,  her  case  should  go  to  the 
Commissioners,  and  if  necessary  to  the  High  Court.  Just 
because  she  knew  that  in  her  own  home  and  parish  the 


260  JOANNA   GODDEN 

fighting  spirit   was   failing  her,   Joanna   resolved  to   fight 
this  battle  outside  it  without  counting  the  cost. 


§8 

That  autumn  she  had  her  first  twinge  of  rheumatism. 
The  days  of  the  marsh  ague  were  over,  but  the  dread 
"rheumatiz"  still  twisted  comparatively  young  bones.  Jo- 
anna had  escaped  till  a  later  age  than  many,  for  her  work 
lay  mostly  in  dry  kitchens  and  bricked  yards,  and  she  had 
had  little  personal  contact  with  the  soil,  that  odorous  sponge 
of  the  marsh  earth,  rank  with  the  soakings  of  sea-fogs 
and  land-fogs. 

Like  most  healthy  people,  she  made  a  tremendous  fuss 
once  she  was  laid  up.  Mene  Tekel  and  Mrs.  Tolhurst  were 
kept  flying  up  and  down  stairs  with  hot  bricks  and  poultices 
and  that  particularly  noxious  brew  of  camomile  tea  which 
she  looked  upon  as  the  cure  of  every  ill.  Ellen  would  come 
now  and  then  and  sit  on  her  bed,  and  wander  round  the 
room  playing  with  Joanna's  ornaments — she  wore  a  little 
satisfied  smile  on  her  face,  and  about  her  was  a  queer  air 
of  restlessness  and  contentment  which  baffled  and  annoyed 
her  sister. 

The  officers  from  Lydd  did  not  now  come  so  often  to 
Ansdore.  Ellen's  most  constant  visitor  at  this  time  was 
the  son  of  the  people  who  had  taken  Great  Ansdore  dwel- 
ling-house. Tip  Ernley  had  just  come  back  from  Australia ; 
he  did  not  like  colonial  life  and  was  looking  round  for 
something  to  do  at  home.  He  was  a  county  cricketer,  an 
exceedingly  nice-looking  young  man,  and  his  people  were 
a  good  sort  of  people,  an  old  West  Sussex  family  fallen 
into  straitened  circumstances. 

On  his  account  Joanna  came  downstairs  sooner  than  she 
ought.  She  could  not  get  rid  of  her  distrust  of  Ellen,  the 
conviction  that  once  her  sister  was  left  to  herself  sh^ 
would  be  up  to  all  sorts  of  mischief.  Ellen  had  behaved 
impossibly  once  and  therefore,  according  to  Joanna,  there 


JOANNA   GODDEN  261 

was  no  guarantee  that  she  would  not  go  on  behaving  im- 
possibly to  the  end  of  time.  So  she  came  down  to  play  the 
dragon  to  Tip  Ernley  as  she  had  played  the  dragon  to  the 
young  lieutenants  of  the  summer.  There  was  not  much  for 
her  to  do — she  saw  at  once  that  the  boy  was  different  from 
the  officers,  a  simple-minded  creature,  strong,  gentle  and 
clean-living,  with  deferential  eyes  and  manners.  Joanna 
liked  him  at  first  sight,  and  relented.  They  had  tea  together, 
and  a  game  of  three-handed  bridge  afterwards^ — Ellen  had 
taught  her  sister  to  play  bridge. 

Then  as  the  evening  wore  on,  and  the  mists  crept  up 
from  the  White  Kemp  Sewer  to  muffle  the  windows  of 
Ansdore  and  make  Joanna's  bones  twinge  and  ache,  she 
knew  that  she  had  come  down  too  late.  These  young 
people  had  had  time  enough  to  settle  their  hearts'  business 
in  a  little  less  than  a  week,  and  Joanna  God-dam  could  not 
scare  them  apart.  Of  course  there  was  nothing  to  fear — 
this  fine,  shy  man  would  make  no  assault  on  Ellen  Alce's 
frailty,  it  was  merely  a  case  of  Ellen  Alee  becoming  Ellen 
Ernley,  if  he  could  be  persuaded  to  overlook  her  "past" — 
a  matter  which  Joanna  thought  important  and  doubtful. 
But  the  elder  sister's  heart  twinged  and  ached  as  much  as 
her  bones.  There  was  not  only  the  thought  that  she  might 
lose  Ellen  once  more,  and  have  to  go  back  to  her  lonely 
living  .  .  .  her  heart  was  sick  to  think  that  again  love  had 
come  under  her  roof  and  had  not  visited  her.  Love  .  .  . 
love  .  .  .  for  Ellen — no  more  for  Joanna  Goddcn.  Per- 
haps now  it  was  too  late.  She  was  getting  on,  past  thirty- 
seven — romance  never  came  as  late  at  that  on  Walland 
Marsh,  unless  occasionally  to  widows.  Then,  since  it  was 
too  late,  why  did  she  so  passionately  long  for  it? — Why 
had  not  her  heart  grown  old  with  her  years? 

§  9 

During  the  next  few  weeks  Joanna  watched  the  young 
romance  grow  and  sweeten.     Ellen  was  becoming  almost 


262  JOANNA   GODDEN 

girlish  again,  or  rather,  girlish  as  she  had  never  been.  The 
curves  of  her  mouth  grew  softer  and  her  voice  lost  its 
even  tones — she  had  moments  of  languor  and  moments 
of  a  queer  lightness.  Great  and  Little  Ansdore  were  now 
on  very  good  terms,  and  during  that  Winter  there  was  an 
exchange  of  dinners  and  bridge.  Joanna  could  now,  as  she 
expressed  it,  give  a  dinner-party  with  the  best  of  'em. 
Nothing  more  splendid  could  be  imagined  than  Joanna 
Godden  sitting  at  the  head  of  her  table,  wearing  her 
Folkestone-made  gown  of  apricot  charmeuse,  adapted  to 
her  modesty  by  means  of  some  rich  gold  lace ;  Ellen  had 
induced  her  to  bind  her  hair  with  a  gold  ribbon,  and  from 
her  ears  great  gold  ear-rings  hung  nearly  to  her  shoulders, 
giving  the  usual  florid  touch  to  her  stateliness.  Ellen,  in 
contrast,  wore  iris-tinted  gowns  that  displayed  nacreous 
arms  and  shoulders,  and  her  hair  passed  in  dark  shining 
locks  over  her  little  unadorned  ears. 

Joanna  was  annoyed  because  Ellen  never  told  her  any- 
thing about  herself  and  Tip  Ernley.  She  wanted  to  know 
in  what  declared  relation  they  stood  to  each  other.  She 
hoped  Ellen  was  being  straight  with  him,  as  she  was  obvi- 
ously not  being  with  her.  She  did  not  think  they  were 
definitely  engaged — Surely  they  would  have  let  her  know 
that.  Perhaps  he  was  waiting  till  he  had  found  some 
satisfactory  job  and  could  afford  to  keep  a  wife.  She  told 
herself  angrily  that  if  only  they  would  confide  in  her  she 
would  help  the  young  pair  .  .  .  they  were  spoiling  their 
own  chances  by  keeping  her  out  of  their  secrets.  It  never 
struck  her  that  Ernley  would  rather  not  be  beholden  to  her, 
whatever  Ellen  might  feel  on  the  matter. 

His  father  and  mother — well-bred,  cordial  people — and 
his  maiden  sister,  of  about  Joanna's  age,  never  seemed  to  see 
anything  remarkable  in  the  way  Ellen  and  Tip  always  went 
off  together  after  dinner,  while  the  others  settled  down  to 
their  bridge.  It  seemed  to  Joanna  a  grossly  improper  pro- 
ceeding if  they  were  not  engaged.  But  all  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ernley  would  say  was — "Quite  right  too — it's  just  as  well 


JOANNA    GODDEN  263 

when  young  people  aren't  too  fond  of  cards."  Joanna  her- 
self was-  growing  to  be  quite  fond  of  cards,  though  in  her 
heart  she  did  not  think  that  for  sheer  excitement  bridge 
was  half  as  good  as  beggar-my-neighbour,  which  she  used 
to  play  witli  Mene  Tekel,  in  the  old  days  before  she  and 
Mene  both  became  dignified,  the  one  as  mistress,  the  other 
as  maid.  She  enjoyed  her  bridge — but  often  the  game 
would  be  quite  spoilt  by  the  thought  of  Ellen  and  Tip  in 
some  secluded  corner.  He  must  be  making  love  to  her,  or 
they  wouldn't  go  off  alone  together  like  that  ...  I  go  no 
trumps  ...  if  they  wanted  just  ordinary  talk  they  could 
stay  in  here,  we  wouldn't  trouble  'em  if  they  sat  over  there 
on  the  sofa  ...  me  to  play,  is  it?  ...  I  wonder  if  she 
lets  him  kiss  her  .  .  .  oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure.  .  .  . 

Johanna  had  no  more  returns  of  rheumatism  that  Winter. 
Scared  and  infuriated  by  her  one  experience,  she  took 
great  care  of  herself,  and  that  Winter  was  drier  than  usual, 
with  crisp  days  of  cold  sunshine,  and  a  skin  of  ice  on  the 
sewers.  Once  or  twice  there  was  a  fall  of  snow,  and 
even  Joanna  saw  beauty  in  those  days  of  a  blue  and  white 
sky  hanging  above  the  dazzling  white  spread  of  the  three 
marshes,  Walland,  Dunge  and  I'lomney,  one  huge  white 
plain,  streaked  with  the  water  courses  black  under  their 
ice,  like  bars  of  iron.  Somehow  the  sight  hurt  her;  all 
beautiful  things  hurt  her  strangely  now — whether  it  was 
the  snow-laden  marsh,  or  the  first  scents  of  Spring  in  the 
evenings  of  February,  or  even  Ellen's  face  like  a  broad, 
pale  flower. 

She  felt  low-spirited  and  out  of  sorts  that  turn  of  the 
year.  It  was  worse  than  rheumat'sm.  .  .  .  Then  she  sud- 
denly conceived  the  idea  that  it  was  the  rheumatism  "driven 
inside  her."  Joanna  had  heard  many  terrible  tales  of  peo- 
ple who  had  perished  through  quite  ordinary  complaints, 
like  measles,  being  mysteriously  "driven  inside."  It  was 
a  symptom  of  her  low  condition  that  she  should  worry 
about  her  health,  which  till  then  had  never  given  her  a 
minute's  preoccupation.     She  consulted  "The  Family  Doc- 


264  JOANNA    GODDEN 

tor,"  and  realised  the  number  of  diseases  she  might  be 
suffering  from  besides  suppressed  rheumatism  —  cancer, 
consumption,  kidney  disease,  diabetes,  appendicitis,  asthma, 
arthritis,  she  seemed  to  have  them  all,  and  in  a  fit  of  panic 
she  decided  to  consult  a  physician  in  the  flesh. 

So  she  drove  off  to  see  Dr.  Taylor  in  her  smart  chocolate- 
coloured  trap,  behind  her  chocolate-coloured  mare,  with 
her  groom  in  chocolate-coloured  livery  on  the  seat  behind 
her.  She  intended  to  buy  a  car  if  she  won  her  case  at  the 
High  Court — for  to  the  High  Court  it  had  gone,  both  the 
Commissioners  and  their  referee  having  shown  themselves 
blind  to  her  claim  of  justice. 

The  doctor  listened  respectfully  to  the  long  list  of  her 
symptoms  and  to  her  own  diagnosis  of  them.  No,  he  did 
not  think  it  was  the  rheumatism  driven  inside  her.  .  .  .  He 
asked  her  a  great  many  questions,  some  of  which  she 
thought  indelicate. 

"You're  thoroughly  run  down,"  he  said  at  last — "been 
doing  too  much — you've  done  a  lot,  you  know." 

"Reckon  I  have,"  said  Joanna — "but  I'm  a  young  woman 
yet," — there  was  a  slight  touch  of  defiance  in  her  last 
words. 

"Oh,  age  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  We're  liable  to 
overwork  ourselves  at  all  ages.  Over-work  and  worry.  .  .  . 
What  you  need  is  a  thorough  rest  of  mind  and  body.  I 
recommend  a  change." 

"You  mean  I  should  ought  to  go  away?" 

"Certainly." 

"But  I  haven't  been  away  for  twenty  year." 

"That's  just  it.  You've  let  yourself  get  into  a  groove. 
You  want  a  thorough  change  of  air,  scene  and  society.  I 
recommend  that  you  go  away  to  some  cheerful  gay  water- 
ing place,  where  there's  plenty  going  on  and  you'll  meet 
new  people." 

"But  what'll  become  of  Ansdore?" 

"Surely  it  can  get  on  without  you  for  a  few  weeks?" 

**I  can't  go  till  the  lambing's  finished." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  265 

"When  will  that  be?" 

"Not  till  after  Easter." 

"Well,  Easter  is  a  very  good  time  to  go  away.  Do  take 
my  advice  about  this,  Miss  Godden.  You'll  never  be  really 
well  and  happy  if  you  keep  in  a  groove.  .  .  ." 

"Groove !''  snorted  Joanna. 


§  10 

She  was  so  much  annoyed  with  him  for  having  twice 
referred  to  Ansdore  as  a  "groove"  that  at  first  she  felt 
inclined  not  to  take  his  advice.  But  even  to  Joanna  this 
was  unsatisfactory  as  a  revenge — "If  I  stay  at  home,  maybe 
I'll  get  worse,  and  then  he'll  be  coming  over  to  see  me  in 
my  'groove'  and  getting  eight-and-six  each  time  for  it." 
It  would  certainly  be  better  to  go  away  and  punish  the 
doctor  by  a  complete  return  to  health.  Besides,  she  was 
awed  by  the  magnitude  of  the  prescription.  It  was  a  great 
thing  on  the  marsh  to  be  sent  away  for  change  of  air,  in- 
stead of  just  getting  a  bottle  of  stufif  to  take  three  times 
daily  after  meals.  .  .  .  She'd  go,  and  make  a  splash  of  it. 

Then  the  question  arose — where  should  she  go?  She 
coulfl  go  to  her  cousins  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  but  they  were 
a  poor  lot.  She  could  go  to  Chichester,  where  Martha 
Relf,  the  girl  who  had  been  with  her  when  she  first  took 
over  Ansdore  and  had  behaved  so  wickedly  with  the  looker 
at  Iloneychild,  now  kept  furnishcfl  rooms  as  a  respectable 
widow.  Martha,  who  was  still  grateful  to  Joanna,  had 
written  and  asked  her  to  come  and  try  her  accommoda- 
tion. .  .  .  But  by  no  kinfl  of  process  coulfl  Chichester  be 
thought  of  as  a  "cheerful  watering-place,"  and  Joanna  was 
rcpolvod  to  carry  out  her  prescription  to  the  letter. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  a  really  good  place?"  suggestcfl 
Ellen — ^"Bath  or  Matlock  or  Leamington.  You  could  stay 
at  a  hydro,  if  you  liked." 

But  these  were  all  too  far — Joanna  did  not  want  to  be 
beyond  the  summons  of  Ansdore,  which  she  could  scarcely 


266  JOANNA    GODDEN 

believe  would  survive  her  absence.  Also,  to  her  horror,  she 
discovered  that  nothing  would  induce  Ellen  to  accompany 
her. 

"But  I  can't  go  without  you !"  she  cried  dismally — "it 
wouldn't  be  seemly — it  wouldn't  be  proper." 

"What  nonsense,  Jo.  Surely  a  woman  of  your  age  can 
stop  anywhere  by  herself." 

"Oh,  indeed,  can  she,  Ma'am?  And  what  about  a  woman 
of  your  age? — It's  you  I  don't  like  leaving  alone  here." 

"That's  absurd  of  you.  I'm  a  married  woman,  and  quite 
able  to  look  after  myself.  Besides,  I've  Mrs.  Tolhurst  with 
me,  and  the  Emleys  are  quite  close." 

"Oh,  yes,  the  Ernleys !"  snifYed  Joanna  with  a  toss  of 
her  head.  She  felt  that  now  was  a  fitting  opportunity  for 
Ellen  to  disclose  her  exact  relations  with  the  family,  but 
surprisingly  her  sister  took  no  advantage  of  the  opening 
thus  made, 

"You'd  much  better  go  alone,  Joanna — it  won't  do  you 
half  so  much  good  if  I  go  with  you.  We're  getting  on 
each  other's  nerves,  you  know  we  are.  At  least  I'm  getting 
on  yours.  You'll  be  much  happier  among  entirely  new 
people." 

It  ended  in  Joanna  taking  rooms  at  the  Palace  Hotel, 
Marlingate.  No  persuasions  would  make  her  go  further 
off.  She  was  convinced  that  neither  Ansdore  nor  Ellen 
could  exist,  at  least  decorously,  without  her,  and  she  must 
be  within  easy  reach  of  both.  The  fortnight  between  the 
booking  of  her  room  and  her  setting  out  she  spent  in 
mingled  fretfulness  and  swagger.  She  fretted  about 
Ansdore,  and  nearly  drove  her  carter  and  her  looker  frantic 
with  her  last  injunctions;  she  fretted  about  Ellen,  and  cau- 
tioned Mrs.  Tolhurst  to  keep  a  strict  watch  over  her — 
"She's  not  to  go  up  to  late-dinner  at  Great  Ansdore  with- 
out you  fetch  her  home."  On  the  other  hand,  she  swag- 
gered tremendously  about  the  expensive  and  fashionable 
trip  she  was  making.  Her  room  was  on  the  first  floor  of 
the  hotel  and  would  cost  her  twelve-and-six  a  night.     She 


JOANNA    GODDEN  267 

had  taken  it  for  a  week,  "but  I  told  them  I'd  stay  a  fort- 
night if  I  was  satisfied,  so  reckon  they'll  do  all  they  can. 
I'll  have  breakfast  in  bed" — she  added,  as  a  climax. 


§  11 

In  spite  of  this  Joanna  could  not  help  feeling  a  little 
nervous  and  lonely  when  she  found  herself  at  the  Palace 
Hotel.  It  was  so  very  different  from  the  New  Inn  at 
Romney,  or  the  George  at  Rye,  or  any  other  substantial 
farmers'  ordinary  where  she  ate  her  dinner  on  market  days. 
Of  course  she  had  been  to  the  Lord  Warden  at  Folkestone 
— whatever  place  Joanna  visited,  whether  Brodnyx  or 
Folkestone,  she  went  to  the  best  hotel — so  she  was  not 
uninitiated  in  the  mysteries  of  hotel  menus  and  lifts  and 
hall  porters,  and  other  phenomena  that  alarm  the  simple- 
minded  ;  but  that  was  many  years  ago,  and  it  was  more 
years  still  since  she  had  slept  away  from  Ansdore,  out  of 
her  own  big  bed  with  its  feather  mattress  and  flowered 
curtains,  so  unlike  this  narrow  hotel  arrangement,  all  box 
mattress  and  brass  knobs. 

The  first  night  she  lay  miserably  awake,  wishing  she 
had  never  come.  She  felt  shy  and  lonely  and  scared  and 
homesick.  After  the  dead  stillness  of  Ansdore,  a  stillness 
which  broodcfl  unbroken  till  dawn,  which  was  the  voice  of 
a  thick  darkness,  she  found  even  this  quiet  seaside  hotel 
full  of  disturbing  noise.  The  hum  of  the  lift  ascending 
far  into  the  night,  the  occasional  wheels  and  footsteps  on 
the  parade,  the  restless  heaving  roar  of  the  sea,  all  disturbed 
the  small  slumbers  that  her  sense  of  alarm  and  strangeness 
would  let  her  enjoy.  She  told  herself  she  would  never 
sleep  a  wink  in  this  rackety  place,  and  would  have  sought 
comfort  in  the  resolution  to  go  home  the  next  morning,  if 
she  had  not  had  Ellen  to  face,  and  the  servants  anfl  the 
neighbours  to  whom  she  had  boasted  so  much. 

However,  when  daylight  came,  and  stmshine,  and  her 
breakfast-in-bed,  with  its  shining  dish  covers  and  appetis- 


268  JOANNA    GODDEN 

ing  smells,  she  felt  quite  different,  and  ate  her  bacon  and 
eggs  with  appetite  and  a  thrilling  sense  of  her  own  impor- 
tance. The  waitress,  for  want  of  a  definite  order,  had 
brought  her  coffee,  which  somehow  made  her  feel  very 
rakish  and  continental,  though  she  would  have  much  pre- 
ferred tea.  When  she  had  finished  breakfast,  she  wrote 
a  letter  to  Ellen  describing  all  her  experiences  with  as  much 
fulness  as  was  compatible  with  that  strange  inhibition 
which  always  accompanied  her  taking  up  of  the  pen,  and 
distinguished  her  letters  so  remarkably  from  the  feats  of 
her  tongue. 

When  she  had  written  the  letter  and  posted  it  adven- 
turously in  the  hotel  letter  box,  she  went  out  on  the  parade 
to  listen  to  the  band.  It  was  Easter  week,  and  there  were 
still  a  great  many  people  about,  couples  sitting  round  the 
bandstand  more  deeply  absorbed  in  each  other  than  in 
the  music.  Joanna  paid  two-pence  for  a  chair,  having 
ascertained  that  there  were  no  more  expensive  seats  to  be 
had,  and  at  the  end  of  an  hour  felt  consumedly  bored. 
The  music  was  bright  and  popular  enough,  but  she  was  not 
musical,  and  soon  grew  tired  of  listening  to  "tunes."  Also 
something  about  the  music  made  her  feel  uncomfortable — 
the  same  dim  yet  searching  discomfort  she  had  when  she 
looked  at  the  young  couples  in  the  sun  .  .  .  the  young 
girls  in  their  shady  hats  and  silk  stockings,  the  young  men 
in  their  flannels  and  blazers.  They  were  all  part  of  a 
whole  to  which  she  did  not  belong,  of  which  the  music 
was  part  .  .  .  and  the  sea,  and  the  sun,  and  the  other  vis- 
itors at  the  hotel,  the  very  servants  of  the  hotel  .  .  .  and 
Ellen  at  Ansdore  ...  all  day  she  was  adding  fresh  parts 
to  that  great  whole,  outside  which  she  seemed  to  exist 
alone. 

"Fm  getting  fanciful,"  she  thought— "this  place  hasn't 
done  me  a  bit  of  good  yet." 

She  devoted  herself  to  the  difficult  art  of  filling  up  her 
day.  Accustomed  to  having  every  moment  occupied,  she 
could  hardly  cope  with  the  vast  stretch  of  idle  hours.  After 


JOANNA   GODDEN  269 

a  day  or  two  she  found  herself  obliged  to  give  up  having- 
breakfast  in  bed.  From  force  of  habit  she  woke  every 
morning  at  five,  and  could  not  endure  the  long  wait  in  her 
room.  If  the  weather  was  fine,  she  usually  went  for  a 
walk  on  the  sea-front,  from  Rock-a-Nore  to  the  Monypenny 
statue.  Nothing  would  induce  her  to  bathe,  though  even 
at  that  hour  and  season  the  water  was  full  of  young  men 
and  women  rather  shockingly  enjoying  themselves  and  each 
other.  After  breakfast  she  wrote  laborious  letters  ta 
Broadhurst,  Wilson,  Mrs.  Tolhurst,  Ellen,  Mene  Tekel — 
she  had  never  written  so  many  letters  in  her  life,  but  every 
day  she  thought  of  some  fresh  thing  that  would  be  left 
undone  if  she  did  not  write  about  it.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished her  letters,  she  went  out  and  listened  respectfully  to 
the  band.  The  afternoon  was  generally  given  up  to  some 
excursion  or  char-a-banc  drive,  and  the  day  finished  rather 
somnolently  in  the  lounge. 

She  did  not  get  far  beyond  civilities  with  the  other  vis- 
itors in  the  hotel.  More  than  one  had  spoken  to  her,  at- 
tracted by  this  handsome,  striking,  and  probably  wealthy 
woman — through  Ellen's  influence  her  appearance  had  been 
purged  of  what  was  merely  startling — but  they  either  took 
fright  at  her  broad  marsh  accent  .  .  .  "she  must  be  some- 
body's cook  come  into  a  fortune"  ...  or  more  funda- 
mental incompatibility  of  outlook  kept  them  at  a  distance. 
Johanna  was  not  the  person  for  niceties  of  hotel  accjuaint- 
anceship — she  was  too  garrulous,  too  overwhelming,  too 
boastful.  Also,  she  failed  to  realise  that  all  states  of  soci- 
ety are  not  equally  interested  in  the  price  of  wheat,  that 
certain  details  of  sheep-breeding  seem  indelicate  to  the 
uninitiated,  and  that  strangers  do  not  really  care  how  many 
acres  one  possesses,  how  many  servants  one  keeps,  or  the 
exact  price  one  paid  for  one's  latest  churn. 

§  12 

The  last  few  days  of  her  stay  brought  her  a  rather  igno- 
minious sense  of  relief.    In  her  secret  heart  she  was  eagerly 


270  JOANNA   GODDEN 

waiting  till  she  should  be  back  at  Ansdore,  eating  her  din- 
ner with  Ellen,  sleeping  in  her  own  bed,  ordering  about  her 
own  servants.  She  would  enjoy,  too,  telling  everyone  about 
her  exploits,  all  the  excursions  she  had  been,  the  food  she 
had  eaten,  the  fine  folk  she  had  spoken  to  in  the  lounge, 
the  handsome  amount  she  had  spent  in  tips.  .  .  .  They 
would  all  ask  her  whether  she  felt  much  the  better  for  her 
holiday,  and  she  was  uncertain  what  to  answer  them.  A 
complete  recovery  might  make  her  less  interesting;  on  the 
other  hand  she  did  not  want  anyone  to  think  she  had  come 
back  half-cured  because  of  the  expense  .  .  .  that  was  just 
the  sort  of  thing  Mrs.  Southland  would  imagi^ie,  and 
Southland  would  take  it  straight  to  the  Woolpack. 

Her  own  feelings  gave  her  no  clue.  Her  appetite  had 
much  improved,  but,  against  that,  she  was  sleeping  badly — 
which  she  partly  attributed  to  the  "noise" — and  was  grow- 
ing, probably  on  account  of  her  idle  days,  increasingly  rest- 
less. She  found  it  difficult  to  settle  down  to  anything — 
the  hours  in  the  hotel  lounge  after  dinner,  which  used  to 
be  comfortably  drowsy  after  the  day  of  sea-air,  were  now 
a  long  stretch  of  boredom,  from  which  she  went  up  early 
to  bed,  knowing  that  she  would  not  sleep.  The  Band 
played  on  the  Parade  every  evening,  but  Joanna  consid- 
ered that  it  would  be  unseemly  for  her  to  go  out  alone  in 
Marlingate  after  dark.  Though  she  would  have  walked 
out  on  the  Brodnyx  road  at  midnight  without  placing  the 
slightest  strain,  either  on  her  courage  or  sense  of  decorum, 
the  well-lighted  streets  of  a  town  became  to  her  vaguely  dan- 
gerous and  indecorous  after  dusk  had  fallen.  "It  wouldn't 
be  seemly,"  she  repeated  to  herself  in  the  loneliness  and 
dulness  of  the  lounge,  and  went  desperately  to  bed. 

However,  two  nights  before  going  away  she  could  bear 
it  no  longer.  After  a  warm  April  day  a  purple  starry 
evening  hung  over  the  sea.  The  water  itself  was  a  deep, 
glaucous  grey,  holding  strange  lights  besides  the  golden 
path  of  the  moon.  Beachy  Head  stood  out  purple  against 
the  fading  amber  of  the  west,  in  the  east  All  Holland  Hill 


JOANNA    GODDEN  271 

was  hung  with  a  crown  of  stars,  which  seemed  to  be  mir- 
rored in  the  lights  of  the  fisher-boats  off  Rock-a-Nore.  .  .  . 
It  was  impossible  to  think  of  such  an  evening  spent  in  the 
stuffy,  lonely  lounge,  with  heavy  curtains  shutting  out  the 
opal  and  the  amethyst  of  night. 

She  had  not  had  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  having  come 
home  late  from  a  char-a-banc  drive  to  Pevensey,  and  the  cir- 
cumstance seemed  slightly  to  mitigate  the  daring  of  a  stroll. 
In  her  neat  tailor-made  coat  and  skirt  and  black  hat  with 
the  cocks'  plumes  she  might  perhaps  walk  to  and  fro  just 
a  little  in  front  of  the  hotel.  She  went  out,  and  was  a 
trifle  reassured  by  the  light  which  still  lingered  in  the  sky 
and  on  the  sea — it  was  not  quite  dark  yet,  and  there  was 
a  respectable-looking  lot  of  people  about — she  recognised 
a  lady  staying  in  the  hotel,  and  would  have  joined  her,  but 
the  lady,  whom  she  had  already  scared,  saw  her  coming, 
and  dodged  off  in  the  direction  of  the  Marine  Gardens. 

The  band  began  to  play,  a  waltz  from  "A  Persian  Prin- 
cess." Joanna  felt  once  more  in  her  blood  the  strange  stir 
of  the  music  she  could  not  understand.  It  would  be  nice 
to  dance  .  .  .  queer  that  she  had  never  danced  as  a  girl. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute,  then  walked  towards 
the  bandstand,  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  Corporation 
benches,  outside  the  crowd  that  had  grouped  round  the 
musicians.  It  was  very  much  the  same  sort  of  crowd  as  in 
\hc  morning,  but  it  was  less  covert  in  its  ways — hands  were 
linked,  even  here  and  there  waists  entwined.  .  .  .  Such 
details  began  to  stand  out  of  the  dim,  purplesccnt  mass  of 
the  twilight  people  .  .  .  night  was  the  time  for  love.  They 
had  come  out  into  the  darkness  to  make  love  to  each  other 
— their  voices  smnulcd  different  from  in  the  day,  more 
dragging,   more   tender.  .  .  . 

She  began  to  think  of  the  times,  which  now  seepied  so 
far  off,  when  she  herself  had  sought  a  man's  kisses.  Half- 
ashamed  she  went  back  to  stolen  meetings — in  a  barn — 
behind  a  rick — in  the  elvish  shadow  of  some  skewblown 
thorn.     Just  kisses  .  .  .  not  love,  for  love  had  been  dead 


212  JOANNA   GODDEN 

in  her  then.  .  .  .  But  those  kisses  had  been  sweet,  she  re- 
membered them,  she  could  feel  them  on  her  lips  .  .  .  oh, 
she  could  love  again  now — she  could  give  and  take  kisses 
now. 

The  band  was  playing  a  rich,  thick,  drawling  melody,  full 
of  the  purple  night  and  the  warm  air.  The  lovers  round 
the  band-stand  seemed  to  sway  to  it  and  draw  closer  to 
each  other.  Joanna  looked  down  into  her  lap,  for  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  She  regretted  passionately  the  days 
that  were  past — those  light  loves  which  had  not  been  able 
to  live  in  the  shadow  of  Martin's  memory.  Oh,  why  had 
he  taught  her  to  love  and  then  made  it  impossible  for  her 
ever  to  love  again? — till  it  was  too  late,  till  she  was  a 
middle-aged  woman  to  whom  no  man  came.  ...  It  was 
not  likely  that  anyone  would  want  her  now — her  light 
lovers  all  lived  now  in  substantial  wedlock,  the  well-to-do 
farmers  who  had  proposed  to  her  in  the  respectful  way 
of  business  had  now  taken  to  themselves  other  wives.  The 
young  men  looked  to  women  of  their  own  age,  to  Ellen's 
pale,  soft  beauty  .  .  .  once  again  she  envied  Ellen  her 
loves,  good  and  evil,  and  shame  was  in  her  heart.  Then 
she  lifted  her  eyes  and  saw  Martin  coming  towards  her. 


§  13 

In  the  darkness,  lit  only  now  by  the  lamp-dazzled  moon- 
light, and  in  the  midst  of  her  own  tears,  the  man  before 
her  was  exactly  like  Martin,  in  build,  gait,  colouring  and 
expression.  Her  moment  of  recognition  stood  out  clear, 
quite  distinct  from  the  realisation  of  impossibility  which 
afterwards  engulfed  it.  She  unclasped  her  hands  and  half 
rose  in  her  seat — the  next  minute  she  fell  back.  "Reckon 
I'm  crazy,"  she  thought  to  herself. 

Then  she  was  startled  to  realise  that  the  man  had  sat 
down  beside  her.  Her  heart  beat  quickly.  Though  she 
no  longer  confused  him  with  Martin,  the  image  of  Martin 


JOANNA    GODDEN  273 

persisted  in  her  mind  .  .  .  how  wonderfully  like  him  he 
was  .  .  .  the  very  way  he  walked.  .  .  . 

"I  saw  you  give  me  the  glad  eye  .  .  ."  not  the  way  he 
talked,  certainly. 

There  was  rather  a  terrible  silence. 

"Are  you  going  to  pretend  you  didn't?" 

Joanna  turned  on  him  the  tear-filled  eyes  he  had  con- 
sidered glad.  She  blinked  the  tears  out  recklessly  on  to 
her  check,  and  opened  her  mouth  to  reduce  him  to  the  level 
of  the  creeping  things  upon  the  earth.  .  .  .  But  the  mouth 
remained  open  and  speechless.  She  could  not  look  him  in 
the  face  and  still  feel  angry.  Though  now  she  would  no 
longer  have  taken  him  for  Martin,  the  resemblance  still 
seemed  to  her  startling.  He  had  the  same  rich  eyes — • 
with  an  added  trifle  of  impudence — under  the  same  veiling, 
womanish  lashes,  the  same  black  sweep  of  hair  from  a 
rather  low  forehead,  the  same  graceful  setting  of  the  head, 
though  he  had  not  Martin's  breadth  of  shoulder  or  deceiv- 
ing air  of  strength. 

Her  hesitation  gave  him  his  opportimity. 

"You  ain't  going  to  scold  me,  are  you?  I  couldn't 
help  it." 

His  unlovely,  Cockney  voice  had  in  it  a  stroking  quality. 
It  stirred  something  in  the  depths  of  Joanna's  heart.  Once 
again  she  tried  to  speak  and  could  not. 

"It's  such  a  lovely  night — just  the  .sort  of  night  you  feel 
lonely,  unless  you've  got  someone  very  nice  with  you." 

This  was  terribly  true. 

"And  you  did  give  me  the  glad  eye,  you  know." 

"I  didn't  mean  to."  She  had  found  her  voice  at  last. 
"I — I  tliotight  you  were  someone  else ;  at  least  I — " 

"Arc  you  expecting  a  friend  ?" 

"Oh,  no — no  one.     It  was  a  mistake." 

"Then  mayn't  I  stay  and  talk  to  you — just  for  a  bit. 
I'm  here  all  alone,  you  know — a  fortnight's  holiday.  I 
don't  know  anyone." 

By  this  time  he  had  dragged  all  her  features  out  of  the 


274  JOANNA   GODDEN 

darkness,  and  saw  that  she  was  not  quite  what  he  had  first 
taken  her  for.  He  had  never  thought  she  was  a  girl — his 
taste  was  for  maturity — but  he  had  not  imagined  her  of 
the  obviously  well-to-do  and  respectable  class  to  which 
she  evidently  belonged.  He  saw  now  that  her  clothes  were 
of  a  fashionable  cut,  that  she  had  about  her  a  generally 
expensive  air,  and  at  the  same  time  he  knew  enough  to 
tell  that  she  was  not  what  he  called  a  lady.  He  found  her 
rather  difficult  to  place.  Perhaps  she  was  a  wealthy  mil- 
liner on  a  holiday  .  .  .  but,  her  accent — you  could  lean 
up  against  it  .  .  .  well,  anyhow  she  was  a  damn  fine 
woman, 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  band?"  he  asked,  subtly 
altering  the  tone  of  the  conversation  which  he  saw  now 
had  been  pitched  too  low. 

"I  think  it  a  proper  fine  band." 

"So  it  is.  They're  going  to  play  'The  Merry  Widow' 
next — ever  seen  it?" 

"No,  never.  I  was  never  at  a  play  but  once,  which  they 
did  at  the  Monastery  at  Rye  in  aid  of  Lady  Buller's  Fund 
when  we  was  fighting  the  Boers.  'Our  Flat'  it  was  called, 
and  all  done  by  respectable  people — not  an  actor  or  an 
actress  among  'em." 

What  on  earth  had  he  picked  up? 

"Do  you  live  at  Rye?" 

"I  live  two  mile  out  of  it — Ansdore's  the  name  of  my 
place — Ansdore  Manor,  seeing  as  now  I've  got  both  Great 
and  Little  Ansdore,  and  the  living's  in  my  gift.  I  put  in 
a  new  parson  last  year." 

This  must  be  a  remarkable  woman,  unless  she  was  telling 
him  the  tale. 

"I  went  over  to  Rye  on  Sunday,"  he  said.  "Quaint  old 
place,  isn't  it?  Funny  to  think  it  used  to  be  on  the  sea- 
shore. They  say  there  once  was  a  battle  between  the 
French  and  English  fleets  where  it's  all  dry  marsh  now." 

Joanna  thrilled  again — that  was  like  Martin,  telling  her 
things,  old  things  about  the  marsh.     The  conversation  was 


JOANNA   GODDEN  275 

certainly  being  conducted  on  very  decorous  lines.  She 
began  to  lose  the  feeling  of  impropriety  which  had  dis- 
turbed her  at  first.  They  sat  talking  about  the  neighbour- 
hood, the  weather,  and  —  under  Joanna's  guidance  —  the 
prospects  of  the  harvest,  for  another  ten  minutes,  at  the 
end  of  which  the  band  went  off  for  their  "interval." 

The  cessation  of  the  music  and  scattering  of  the  crowd 
recalled  Joanna  to  a  sense  of  her  position.  She  realised 
also  that  it  was  quite  dark — the  last  redeeming  ray  had  left 
the  sky.     She  stood  up — 

"Well,  I  must  be  getting  back." 

"Where  are  you  staying?" 

"The  Palace  Hotel." 

What  ho  1     She  must  have  some  money. 

"Alay  I  walk  back  with  you?" 

"Oh,  thanks,"  said  Joanna— "it  ain't  far." 

They  walked,  rather  awkwardly  silent,  the  few  hundred 
yards  to  the  hotel.  Joanna  stopped  and  held  out  her  hand. 
She  suddenly  realised  that  she  did  not  want  to  say  goodbye 
to  the  young  man.  Their  acquaintanceship  had  been  most 
shockingly  begun — Ellen  must  never  know — but  she  did 
not  want  it  to  end.  She  felt,  somehow,  that  he  just  meant 
to  say  goodbye  and  go  off,  without  any  plans  for  another 
meeting.     She  must  take  action  herself. 

"Won't  you  come  and  have  dinner — I  mean  lunch — with 
me  tomorrow  ?" 

She  scanned  his  face  eagerly  as  she  spoke.  It  suddenly 
struck  her  what  a  tcrriijlc  thing  it  would  be  if  he  went 
out  of  her  life  now  after  having  just  come  into  it — come 
back  into  it,  she  had  almost  said,  for  she  could  not  rid  her- 
self of  that  strange  sense  of  Martin's  return,  of  a  second 
spring. 

But  she  need  not  have  been  afraid.  He  was  not  the  man 
to  refuse  his  chances. 

"Thanks  no  end — I'll  be  honoured." 

"Then  I'll  expect  you.  One  o'clock,  and  ask  for  Miss 
Godden." 


276  JOANNA    GODDEN 

§  14 

Joanna  had  a  nearly  sleepless  night.  The  torment  of 
her  mind  would  not  allow  her  to  rest.  At  times  she  was 
overwhelmed  with  shame  at  what  she  had  done — taken  up 
with  a  strange  man  at  the  band,  like  any  low  servant  girl 
on  her  evening  out — My  I  but  she'd  have  given  it  to  Mene 
Tekel  if  she  dared  behave  so !  At  other  times  she  drifted 
on  a  dark  sweet  river  of  thought  .  .  .  every  detail  of  the 
boy's  appearance  haunted  her  with  disturbing  charm — his 
eyes,  black  and  soft  like  Martin's — his  mouth  which  was 
coarser  and  sulkier  than  Martin's,  yet  made  her  feel  all 
disquieted  .  .  .  the  hair  which  rolled  like  Martin's  hair 
from  his  forehead — dear  hair  she  used  to  tug.  .  .  .  Oh, 
he's  the  man  I  could  love — lie's  my  sort — he's  the  kind  I 
like  .  .  .  And  I  don't  even  know  his  name.  .  .  .  But  he 
talks  like  Martin — knows  all  about  old  places  when  they 
were  new — queer  he  should  talk  about  them  floods.  .  .  . 
Romney  Church,  you  can  see  the  marks  on  the  pillars  .  .  . 
I  can't  bear  to  think  of  that.  ...  I  wonder  what  he'll  say 
when  he  comes  tomorrow? — Maybe  he'll  find  me  too  old — 
I'm  ten  years  older  than  him  if  I'm  a  day.  ...  I  must 
dress  myself  up  smart — I'm  glad  I  brought  my  purple 
body.  .  .  .  Martin  liked  me  in  the  old  basket  hat  I  fed 
the  fowls  in  .  .  .  but  I  was  slimmer  then  .  .  .  I'm  getting 
on  now  ...  he  won't  like  me  as  well  by  daylight  as  he 
did  in  the  dark — and  properly  I'll  deserve  it,  carrying  on 
like  that.  I've  half  a  mind  not  to  be  in — I'll  leave  a  polite 
message  saying  "Miss  Godden's  compliments,  but  she's 
had  to  go  home,  owing  to  one  of  her  cows  having  a  mis- 
carriage." I'll  be  wise  to  go  home  tomorrow — reckon  I 
ain't  fit  to  be  trusted  alone. 

But  a  quarter  to  one  the  next  day  saw  her  in  all  the 
splendour  of  her  "purple  body,"  standing  before  her  mir- 
ror, trying  to  make  up  her  mind  whether  to  wear  her  big 
hat  or  her  little  one.  The  little  hat  was  the  smartest  and 
had  cost  the  most  money,  but  the  big  hat  put  a  becoming 


JOANNA    GODDEN  277 

shadow  over  her  eyes,  hid  those  little  lines  that  were  stray- 
ing from  the  corners.  .  .  .  For  the  first  time  Joanna  had 
begun  to  realise  that  clothes  should  have  other  qualities 
besides  mere  splendour.  Hitherto  she  had  never  thought 
of  clothes  in  any  definite  relation  to  herself,  as  enhancing, 
veiling,  suggesting,  or  softening  the  beauty  which  was 
Joanna  Godden.  But  today  she  chose  warily — her  hat  for 
shadow,  her  shoes  for  grace,  her  amber  necklace  because 
she  must  have  that  touch  of  barbarism  which  suited  her 
best — an  unconscious  process  this — and  her  amber  earrings, 
because  they  matched  her  necklace,  and  because  in  the  mir- 
ror she  could  see  the  brighter  colours  of  her  hair  swinging  in 
them.  At  the  last  minute  she  changed  her  "purple  body"  into 
one  of  rich  chestnut  coloured  silk.  This  was  so  far  her  best 
inspiration,  for  it  toned  not  only  with  the  amber  beads,  but 
with  her  skin  and  hair.  As  she  turned  to  leave  the  room 
she  was  like  a  great  glowing  amber  bead  herself,  all  brown 
and  gold,  with  rich  red  lights  and  gleams  of  yellow  .  .  . 
then  just  as  she  was  going  out  she  had  her  last  and  best 
inspiration  of  all.  She  suddenly  went  back  into  the  room, 
and  before  the  mirror  tore  off  the  swathe  of  cream  lace 
she  wore  round  her  throat.  The  short  thick  column  of  her 
neck  rose  out  of  her  golden  blouse.  She  burned  to  her 
ears,  but  walked  resolutely  from  the  room. 

Her  young  man  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  lounge,  and 
she  saw  his  rather  blank  face  light  up  when  she  apj^cared. 
She  had  been  successful,  then  .  .  .  the  realisation  gave 
her  confidence,  and  more  beauty.  During  the  meal  which 
followed,  he  re-cast  a  little  of  that  opinion  he  had  formed 
of  her  the  night  before.  She  was  younger  than  he  had 
thought,  probably  only  a  little  over  thirty,  and  far  bctter- 
IcKjking  than  he  had  gathered  from  a  first  impression. 
Joanna  was  that  rather  rare  type  of  woman  who  invariably 
looks  her  best  in  stmshine — the  dusk  had  hidden  from  him 
her  really  lovely  colouring  of  skin  and  eyes  and  hair;  here 
at  her  little  table  by  the  window  her  face  seemed  almost 
a  condensation  of  the  warm,  ruddy  light  which  poured  in 


278  JOANNA    GODDEN 

from  the  sea.  Her  eyes,  with  the  queer  childlike  depths 
behind  their  feminine  hardness,  her  eager  mouth  and  splen- 
did teeth,  the  scatter  of  freckles  over  her  nose,  all  com- 
bined to  hold  him  in  a  queer  enchantment  of  youth.  There 
was  a  curious,  delightful  freshness  about  her  .  .  .  and  she 
was  a  damn  fine  woman,  too. 

The  night  before  he  had  gathered  that  she  was  of  over- 
whelming respectability,  but  now  he  had  his  doubts  about 
that  also.  She  certainly  seemed  of  a  more  oncoming  dis- 
position than  he  had  thought,  though  there  was  something 
naive  and  virginal  about  her  forwardness.  Her  acquaint- 
ance might  prove  more  entertaining  than  he  had  supposed. 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  uncovered  throat;  she  blushed 
deeply,  and  put  up  her  hand. 

Their  talk  was  very  much  on  the  same  lines  as  the  night 
before.  He  discovered  that  she  had  a  zest  for  hearing  him 
discourse  on  old  places — she  drank  in  all  he  had  to  say 
about  the  old  days  of  Marlingate,  when  it  was  just  a  red 
fishing-village  asleep  between  two  hills.  He  told  her  how 
the  new  town  had  been  built  northward  and  westward,  in 
the  days  of  the  great  Monypenny,  whose  statue  now  stares 
blindly  out  to  sea.  He  was  a  man  naturally  interested  in 
topography  and  generally  "read  up"  the  places  he  visited, 
but  he  had  never  before  found  a  woman  who  cared  to  listen 
to  that  sort  of  stufl. 

After  luncheon,  drinking  coffee  in  the  lounge,  they  be- 
came more  personal  and  intimate.  He  told  her  about 
himself.  His  name  was  Albert  Hill — his  father  was  dead, 
and  he  lived  with  his  mother  and  sister  at  Lewisham.  He 
had  a  good  position  as  clerk  in  a  firm  of  carpet-makers. 
He  was  twenty-five  years  old,  and  doing  well.  Joanna 
became  confidential  in  her  turn.  Her  confidences  mostly 
concerned  the  prosperity  of  her  farm,  the  magnitude  of  its 
acreage,  the  success  of  this  year's  lambing  and  last  year's 
harvest,  but  they  also  included  a  few  sentimental  adven- 
tures— she  had  had  ever  so  many  offers  of  marriage,  in- 


JOANNA    GODDEN  279 

eluding  one  from  a  clergyman,  and  she  had  once  been 
engaged  to  a  Baronet's  son. 

He  wondered  if  she  was  pitching  him  a  yarn,  but  did 
not  think  so ;  if  she  was,  she  would  surely  do  better  for 
herself  than  a  three  hundred  acre  farm,  and  an  apparently 
unlimited  dominion  over  the  bodies  and  souls  of  clergy- 
men. By  this  time  he  was  liking  her  very  much,  and  as  he 
understood  she  had  only  two  days  more  at  Marlingate, 
he  asked  her  to  go  to  the  Pier  theatre  with  him  the  next 
evening. 

Joanna  accepted,  feeling  that  she  was  committing  herself 
to  a  desperate  deed.  But  she  was  reckless  now — she,  as 
well  as  Hill,  thought  of  those  two  poor  days  which  were 
all  she  had  left.  She  must  do  something  in  those  two  days 
to  bind  him,  for  she  knew  that  she  could  not  let  him  go 
from  her — she  knew  that  she  loved  again. 

§  15 

She  did  not  love  as  she  had  loved  the  first  time.  Then 
she  had  loved  with  a  calmness  and  an  acceptance  which 
were  impossible  to  her  now.  She  had  trusted  fate  and 
trusted  the  beloved,  but  now  she  was  unsure  of  both.  She 
was  restless  and  tormented,  and  absorbed  as  she  had  never 
been  in  Martin.  Her  love  consumed  every  other  emotion, 
mental  or  physical — it  would  not  let  her  sleep  or  eat  or 
listen  to  music.  It  kept  her  whole  being  concentrated  on 
the  new  force  that  had  disturbed  it — she  could  think  of 
nothing  but  Albert  Hill,  and  her  thoughts  were  haggard 
and  anxious,  picturing  their  friendshij)  at  a  standstill, 
failing,  and  lost.  .  .  .  Oh,  she  must  not  lose  him — she 
could  not  bear  to  lose  him — she  must  bind  him  somehow 
in  the  short  time  she  had  left. 

There  were  intervals  in  which  she  became  uneasily  con- 
scious of  her  folly.  He  was  thirteen  years  younger  than 
she — it  was  ridiculous.  She  was  a  fool,  after  all  the  n[ipnr- 
tunities  she'd  had,  to  fall  in  love  with  a  mere  boy.     But  she 


280  JOANNA   GODDEN 

knew  in  her  heart  that  it  was  his  youth  she  wanted  most, 
partly  because  it  called  to  something  in  her  which  was  not 
youth,  nor  yet  belonged  to  age — something  which  was  wise, 
tender  and  possessive  .  .  .  something  which  had  never  yet 
been  satisfied. 

Luckily  she  had  health  robust  enough  to  endure  the  prey- 
ings  of  her  mind,  and  did  not  bear  her  conflict  on  her 
face  when  Hill  called  for  her  the  next  evening.  She  had 
been  inspired  to  wear  the  same  clothes  as  before — having 
once  pleased,  she  thought  perhaps  she  would  be  wise  not 
to  take  any  risks  with  the  purple  body,  and  as  for  an 
evening  gown,  Joanna  would  have  felt  like  a  bad  woman 
in  a  book  if  she  had  worn  one.  But  she  was  still  guiltily 
without  her  collar. 

He  took  her  to  a  small  restaurant  on  the  sea-front,  where 
half  a  dozen  couples  sat  at  little  rosily  lit  tables.  Joanna 
was  pleased — she  was  beginning  faintly  to  enjoy  the  im- 
propriety of  her  existence  .  .  .  dinner  in  a  restyrong — 
with  wine — that  would  be  something  to  hold  in  her  heart 
against  Ellen,  next  time  that  young  person  became  superior. 
Joanna  did  not  really  like  wine — a  glass  of  stout  at  her 
meals,  or  pale  ale  in  the  hot  weather,  was  all  she  took  as 
a  rule — but  there  was  a  subtle  fascination  in  putting  her 
lips  to  the  red  glass  full  of  broken  lights,  and  feeling  the 
wine  like  fire  against  them,  while  her  eyes  gazed  over  the 
brim  at  Hill  ...  he  gazed  at  her  over  the  brim  of  his,  and 
somehow  when  their  eyes  met  thus  over  their  glasses,  over 
the  red  wine,  it  was  more  than  when  they  just  met  across 
the  table,  in  the  pauses  of  their  talk.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
he  was  more  lover-like  tonight — his  words  seemed  to  hover 
round  her,  to  caress  her,  and  she  was  not  surprised  when 
she  felt  his  foot  press  hers  under  the  table,  though  she 
hastily  drew  her  own  away. 

After  dinner,  he  took  her  on  the  Pier.  "East  Lynne" 
was  being  played  in  the  Pavilion,  and  they  had  two  of  the 
best  seats.  Joanna  was  terribly  thrilled  and  a  little  shocked 
— she  was  also,  at  the  proper  time,  overcome  with  emotion. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  281 

When  Little  Willy  lay  dying,  it  was  more  than  she  could 
bear  .  .  .  poor  little  chap,  it  made  your  heart  ache  to  see 
him — even  though  he  was  called  Miss  Maidie  Masserene 
on  the  programme,  and  when  not  in  bed  stuck  out  in  parts 
of  his  sailor  suit  which  little  boys  do  not  usually  stick  out 
in.  His  poor  mother,  too  .  .  .  the  tears  rolled  down 
Joanna's  face,  and  her  throat  was  speechless  and  swollen 
.  .  .  something  seemed  to  be  tugging  at  her  heart  .  .  .  she 
grew  ashamed,  almost  frightened.  It  was  a  positive  relief 
when  the  curtain  came  down,  and  rose  again  to  show  that 
little  Willy  had  done  likewise  and  stood  bowing  right  and 
left  in  his  night-shirt. 

Still  the  tears  would  furtively  trickle  .  .  .  what  a  fool 
she  was  getting — it  must  be  the  wine.  My,  but  she  had  a 
weak  head  .  .  .  she  must  never  take  another  glass.  Then 
suddenly  in  the  darkness  she  felt  a  hand  take  hers,  pick  it 
up,  set  it  on  a  person's  knee  .  .  .  her  hand  lay  palm  down- 
wards on  his  knee,  and  his  own  lay  over  it — she  began  to 
tremble  and  her  heart  turned  to  water.  The  tears  ran  on 
and  on. 

.  .  .  They  were  outside,  the  cool  sea  wind  blew  over 
them,  and  in  the  wind  was  the  roar  of  the  sea.  Without  a 
word  they  slipped  out  of  the  stream  of  people  heading  for 
the  pier  gates,  and  went  to  the  railing,  where  they  stood 
looking  down  on  the  black  water. 

"Why  are  you  crying,  dear?"  asked  Hill  tenderly,  as  his 
arm  crept  round  her. 

"I  dunno — I'm  not  the  one  to  cry.  But  that  little  chap 
dying  .  .  .  and  his  poor  Mother  .  .  ." 

"You  soft-hearted  darling."  ...  lie  held  her  close,  in 
all  her  gracious  and  supple  warmth,  which  even  the  fierce- 
ness of  her  stays  could  not  quite  keep  from  him.  Oh.  she 
was  the  dearest  thing,  so  crude  and  yet  so  soft  .  .  .  how 
glad  he  was  he  harl  not  drawn  back  at  the  beginning,  as  he 
had  half  thought  of  doing  .  .  .  she  was  the  loveliest  woman, 
adorable — mature,  yet  unsophisticated  .  .  .  she  was  like  a 
quince,  ripe  and  golden  red,  and  yet  with  a  delicious  tartness. 


282  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Joanna,"  he  breathed,  his  mouth  close  to  the  tawny,  fly- 
ing anthers  of  her  hair — "Do  you  think  you  could  love  me  ?" 

He  felt  her  hair  stroke  his  lips,  as  she  turned  her  head. 
He  saw  her  eyes  bright  with  tears  and  passion.  Then  sud- 
denly she  broke  from  him — 

"I  can't — I  can't  .  .  .  it's  more  than  I  can  bear." 

He  came  after  her,  overtaking  her  just  before  the  gate. 

"Darling  thing,  what's  the  matter? — You  ain't  afraid?" 

"No — no — it  isn't  that.  Only  I  can't  bear  .  .  .  beginning 
to  feel  it  .  .  .  again." 

"Again?" 

"Yes — I  told  you  a  bit.  ...  I  can't  tell  you  any  more." 

"But  the  chap's  dead." 

"Yes." 

"Hang  it  all,  we're  alive  .  .  ."  and  she  surrendered  to  his 
living  mouth. 

§  16 

That  night  she  slept,  and  the  next  morning  she  felt 
calmer.  Some  queer,  submerged  struggle  seemed  to  be  over. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  her  affair  was  more  uncertain  than 
ever.  After  Albert's  kiss,  they  had  had  no  discussion  and 
very  little  conversation.  He  had  taken  her  back  to  the 
hotel,  and  had  kissed  her  again — this  time  on  the  warm, 
submissive  mouth  she  lifted  to  him.  He  had  said — "I'll 
come  and  see  you  at  Ansdore — I've  got  another  week."  And 
she  had  said — nothing.  She  did  not  know  if  he  wanted  to 
marry  her,  or  even  if  she  wanted  to  marry  him.  She  did 
not  worry  about  how — or  if — she  should  explain  him  to 
Ellen.  All  her  cravings  and  uncertainties  were  swallowed 
up  in  a  great  quiet,  a  strange  quiet  which  was  somehow  all 
the  turmoil  of  her  being  expressed  in  silence. 

The  next  day  he  was  true  to  his  promise,  and  saw  her 
off — sitting  decorously  in  her  first-class  carriage  "For 
Ladies  Only." 

"You'll  come  and  see  me  at  Ansdore?"  she  said,  as  the 


JOANNA    GODDEN  283 

moment  of  departure  drew  near,  and  he  said  nothing  about 
last  night's  promise. 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  come?" 

"Reckon  I  do." 

"I'll  come  then." 

"Which  day?" 

"Say  Monday,  or  Tuesday." 

"Come  on  Monday,  by  this  train — and  I'll  meet  you  at  the 
station  in  my  trap.     I've  got  a  fine  stepper." 

"Right  you  are.  I'll  come  on  Monday.  It's  kind  of  you 
to  want  me  so  much." 

"I  do  want  you." 

Her  warm,  glowing  face  in  the  frame  of  the  window  in- 
vited him,  and  they  kissed.  Funny,  thought  Hill  to  himself, 
the  fuss  she  had  made  at  first,  and  she  was  all  over  him 
now.  .  .  .  But  women  were  always  like  that — wantons  by 
nature  and  prudes  by  grace,  and  it  was  wonderful  what  a 
poor  fight  grace  generally  made  of  it. 

Joanna,  unaware  that  she  had  betrayed  herself  and 
womankind,  leaned  back  comfortably  in  the  train  as  it  slid 
out  of  the  station.  .She  was  in  a  happy  dream,  hardly 
aware  of  her  surroundings.  Mechanically  she  watched  the 
great  stucco  amphitheatre  of  Marlingate  glide  past  the  win- 
dow— then  the  rcrl  throbbing  darkness  of  a  tunnel  .  .  . 
and  the  town  was  gone,  like  a  bad  dream,  giving  place  to 
the  tiny  tilled  fields  and  century-old  hedges  of  the  south- 
eastern weald.  Then  gradually  these  sloped  and  lost  them- 
selves in  marsh — first  only  a  green  tongue  running  into  the 
weald  along  tlic  bed  of  the  I>rcde  River,  then  spreading 
north  and  south  and  east  and  west,  from  the  cUfT-line  of 
England's  ancient  coast  to  the  sand  line  of  England's  coast 
today,  from  the  si)ires  of  the  monks  of  Battle  to  the  spires 
of  the  monks  of  Canterbury. 

Joanna  was  roused  automatically  by  this  return  to  her  old 
surrounflings.  She  began  to  think  of  her  trap  waiting  for 
her  outside  Rye  station.  She  wondered  if  Ellen  would  have 
come  to  meet  her.     Yes,  there  she  was  on  the  platform 


284  JOANNA   GODDEN 

.  .  .  wearing  a  green  frock,  too.  She'd  come  out  of  her 
blacks.  Joanna  thrilled  to  a  faint  shock.  She  wondered 
how  many  other  revolutions  Ellen  had  carried  out  in  her 
absence. 

"Well,  old  Jo.  .  .  ."  It  seemed  to  her  that  Ellen's  kiss 
was  warmer  than  usual.  Or  was  it  only  that  her  own  heart 
was  so  warm.  ,  .  . 

Ellen  found  her  remarkably  silent.  She  had  expected  an 
outpouring  of  Joanna's  adventures,  achievements  and  tri- 
umphs, combined  with  a  desperate  catechism  as  to  just  how 
much  ruin  had  befallen  Ansdore  while  she  was  away.  In- 
stead of  which  Joanna  seemed  for  the  first  time  in  Ellen's 
experience,  a  little  dreamy.  She  had  but  little  to  say  to 
Rye's  one  porter  or  to  Peter  Crouch  the  groom.  She  climbed 
up  on  the  front  seat  of  the  trap,  and  took  the  reins. 

"You're  looking  well,"  said  Ellen — "I  can  see  your 
change  has  done  you  good." 

"Reckon  it  has,  my  dear." 

"Were  you  comfortable  at  the  hotel  ?" 

This,  if  anything,  should  have  started  Joanna  off,  but  all 
she  said  was — 

"It  wasn't  a  bad  place." 

— "Well,  if  you  don't  want  to  talk  about  your  own  af- 
fairs," said  Ellen  to  herself — "you  can  listen  to  mine,  for  a 
change.  Joanna" — she  added  aloud — "I  came  to  meet  you, 
because  I've  got  something  special  to  tell  you." 

"What's  that?" 

"Perhaps  you  can  guess." 

Joanna  dreamily  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  I'm  thinking  of  getting  married  again." 

"Married !" 

"Yes — it's  eighteen  months  since  poor  Arthur  died,** 
sighed  the  devoted  widow,  "and — perhaps  you've  noticed — 
Tip  Ernley's  been  getting  very  fond  of  me." 

"Yes,  I  had  noticed  ...  I  was  wondering  why  you 
didn't  tell." 

"There  was  nothing  to  tell.     He  couldn't  propose  to  me 


JOANNA    GODDEN  28S 

till  he  had  something  definite  to  do.     Now  he's  just  been 
offered  the  post  of  agent  on  the  Duke  of  Wiltshire's  estate 
— a  perfectly  splendid  position.     Of  course  I  told  him  all 
about  my  first  marriage" — she  glanced  challengingly  at  her 
sister — "but  he's  a  perfect  dear,  and  he  saw  at  once   I'd 
been  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.     We're  going  to  be 
married  this   Summer." 
"I'm  unaccountable  glad." 
Ellen  gave  her  a  queer  look. 
"You  take  it  very  calmly,  Jo." 
"Well,  I'd  been  expecting  it  all  along." 
"You  won't  mind  my  going  away  and  leaving  you?" 
"Reckon  you'll  have  to  go  where  your  husband  goes." 
— "What   on   earth's   happened?"   thought   Ellen   to  her- 
self— "She's  positively  meek." 
The  next  minute  she  knew. 

"Ellen,"  said  Joanna,  as  they  swung  into  the  Straight 
Mile,  "I've  got  a  friend  coming  to  spend  the  day  on  Mon- 
day— a  Mr.  Hill  that  I  met  in  Marlingate." 


§  17 

For  the  next  few  days  Joanna  was  restless  and  nervous ; 
she  could  not  be  busy  with  Ansdore,  even  after  a  fortnight's 
absence.  The  truth  in  her  heart  was  that  she  found  Ans- 
dore rather  flat.  Wilson's  pride  in  the  growth  of  the  yomig 
lambs,  Broadhurst's  anxiety  about  Spot's  calving  ami  his 
pre-occupation  with  the  Suffolk  dray-horse  Joanna  was  to 
buy  at  Ashford  fair  that  year,  all  seemed  irrelevant  to  the 
main  purpose  of  life.  The  main  stream  of  her  life  had 
suddenly  been  turned  undcrgrDund — it  ran  under  Ansdorc's 
wide  innings — on  Monday  it  would  come  again  to  the  sur- 
face, and  take  her  away  from  Ansdore. 

The  outwarrl  events  of  Monday  were  nf)t  exciting. 
Joanna  drove  into  Rye  with  Peter  Crouch  behind  her.  and 
met  Albert  Hill  with  a  decorous  handshake  on  the  platform. 


286  JOANNA    GODDEN 

During  the  drive  home,  and  indeed  during  most  of  his  visit, 
his  attitude  towards  her  was  scarcely  more  than  ordinary 
friendship.  In  the  afternoon,  when  Ellen  had  gone  out 
with  Tip  Ernley,  he  gave  her  a  few  kisses,  but  without 
much  passion.  She  began  to  feel  disquieted.  Had  he 
changed  ?  Was  there  someone  else  he  liked  ?  At  all  costs 
she  must  hold  him — she  must  not  let  him  go. 

The  truth  was  that  Hill  felt  uncertain  how  he  stood — he 
was  bewildered  in  his  mind.  What  was  she  driving  at? 
Surely  she  did  not  think  of  marriage — the  difference  in 
their  ages  was  far  too  great.  But  what  else  could  she  be 
thinking  of?  He  gathered  that  she  was  invincibly  respect- 
able— and  yet  he  was  not  sure.  ...  In  spite  of  her  de- 
corum, she  had  queer,  unguarded  ways.  He  had  met  no 
one  exactly  like  her,  though  he  was  a  man  of  wide  and  not 
very  edifying  experience.  The  tactics  which  had  started  his 
friendship  with  Joanna  he  had  learned  at  the  shorthand  and 
typewriting  college  where  he  had  learned  his  clerking  job — 
and  they  had  brought  him  a  rummage  of  adventures,  some 
transient,  some  sticky,  some  dirty,  some  glamourous.  He 
had  met  girls  of  a  fairly  good  class — for  his  looks  caused 
much  to  be  forgiven  him — as  well  as  the  typists,  shop-girls 
and  waitresses  of  his  more  usual  association.  But  he  had 
never  met  anyone  quite  like  Joanna — so  simple  yet  so  swag- 
gering, so  solid  yet  so  ardent,  so  rigid  yet  so  unguarded,  so 
superior  and  yet,  he  told  himself,  so  lacking  in  refinement. 
She  attracted  him  enormously  .  .  .  but  he  was  not  the  sort 
of  man  to  waste  his  time. 

"When  do  you  go  back  to  London?"  she  asked. 

"Wednesday  morning." 

She  sighed  deeply,  leaning  against  him  on  the  sofa. 

"Is  this  all  the  holiday  you'll  get  this  year?" 

"No — I've  Whitsun  coming — Friday  to  Tuesday.  I  might 
run  down  to  Marlingatc.  .  .  ." 

He  watched  her  carefully. 

"Oh,  that  ud  be  fine.    You'd  come  and  see  me  here?" 

"Of  course — if  you  asked  me." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  287 

"If  I  asked  you,"  she  repeated  in  a  sudden,  trembling 
scorn. 

Her  head  drooped  to  his  breast,  and  he  took  her  in  his 
arms,  holding  her  across  him — all  her  magnificent  weight 
upon  his  knees.  Oh,  she  was  a  lovely  creature  ...  as  he 
kissed  her  firm,  shy  mouth  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  her  whole 
body  was  a  challenge.  A  queer  kind  of  antagonism  seized 
him — prude  or  rake,  she  should  get  her  lesson  from  him 
all  right. 

§  18 

When  he  had  gone  Joanna  said  to  Ellen — 

"D'you  think  it  would  be  seemly  if  I  asked  Mr.  Hill  here 
to  stay  ?" 

"Of  course  it  would  be  'seemly,'  Jo.  I'm  a  married 
woman.  But  would  he  be  able  to  come  ?  He's  in  business 
somewhere,  isn't  he  ?" 

"Yes,  but  he  could  get  away  for  Whitsun." 

"Then  ask  him  by  all  means.     But  .  .  ." 

She  looked  at  her  quickly  and  teasingly. 

"But  what  ?" 

"Jo,  do  you  care  about  this  man?'' 

"What  d'you  mean?  Why  should  I  care? — Or,  leastways, 
why  shouldn't  I?" 

"No  reason  at  all.  He's  a  good  bit  younger  than  you  arc, 
but  then  T  always  fancied  that  if  you  married  it  ud  ])e  a 
man  younger  than  yourself." 

"Who  said  I  was  going  to  marry  him?" 

"No  one.    But  if  you  care  .  .  ." 

"I  never  said  I  did." 

"Oh,  you're  impossible."  said  Ellon  with  a  little  shrug. 

She  picked  up  a  book  from  the  table,  but  Joanna  coulrl 
not  let  the  conversation  drop. 

"What  d'you  think  of  Mr.  Hill,  Ellen?  Does  he  remind 
you  of  anyone  particular?" 

"No,  not  at  the  moment." 


288  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"Hasn't  it  ever  struck  you  he's  a  bit  like  my  Martin 
Trevor?" 

Her  tongue  no  longer  stammered  at  the  name. 

"Your  Martin  Trevor!  Jo,  what  nonsense,  he's  not  a  bit 
like  him." 

"He's  the  living  image — the  way  his  hair  grows  out  of  his 
forehead,  and  his  dark,  saucy  eyes.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  I  was  only  a  little  girl  when  you  were  engaged  to 
Martin  Trevor,  but  as  I  remember  him  he  was  quite  dif- 
ferent from  Mr.  Hill.  He  belonged  to  another  class,  for 
one  thing.  .  .  .  He  was  a  gentleman." 

"And  you  think  Mr.  Hill  ain't  a  gentleman?" 

"My  dear  Joanna !  Of  course  he's  not — he  doesn't  pro- 
fess to  be." 

"He's  got  a  good  position  as  a  clerk.  Some  clerks  are 
gentlemen." 

"But  this  one  isn't." 

"How  do  you  know  ?" 

"Because  I  happen  to  be  engaged  to  someone  who  is." 

"That  ain't  any  reason  for  miscalling  my  friends." 

"I'm  not  'miscalling'  anyone.  .  .  .  Oh,  hang  it  all,  Jo, 
don't  let's  quarrel  about  men  at  our  time  of  life.  I'm  sorry 
if  I  said  anything  you  don't  like  about  Mr.  Hill.  Of  course 
I  don't  know  him  as  well  as  you  do." 

§  19 

So  Joanna  wrote  to  Albert  Hill  in  her  big,  cramped  hand- 
writing, on  the  expensive  yet  unostentatious  note-paper 
which  Ellen  had  decreed,  inviting  him  to  come  and  spend 
Whitsuntide  at  Ansdore. 

His  answer  did  not  come  for  three  or  four  days,  during 
which,  as  he  meant  she  should,  she  suffered  many  doubts 
and  anxieties.  Was  he  coming?  Did  he  care  for  her? — 
Or  had  he  just  been  fooling?  She  had  never  felt  like  this 
about  a  man  before.  She  had  loved,  but  love  had  never 
held  her  in  the  same  bondage — perhaps  because  till  now  she 


JOANNA    GODDEN  289 

had  always  had  certainties.  Her  affair  with  Martin,  her 
only  real  love  affair,  had  been  a  certainty ;  Arthur  Alce's 
devotion  had  been  a  most  faithful  certainty ;  the  men  who 
had  comforted  her  bereavement  had  also  in  their  different 
ways  been  certainties.  Albert  Hill  was  the  only  man  who 
had  ever  eluded  her,  played  with  her  or  vexed  her.  She 
knew  that  she  attracted  him,  but  she  also  guessed  dimly  that 
he  feared  to  bind  himself.  As  for  her,  she  was  now  deter- 
mined. She  loved  him  and  must  marry  him.  Character- 
istically she  had  swept  aside  the  drawbacks  of  their  different 
ages  and  circumstances,  and  saw  nothing  but  the  man  she 
loved — the  man  who  was  for  her  the  return  of  first  love, 
youth  and  spring.  A  common  little  tawdry-minded  clerk 
some  might  have  called  him,  but  to  Joanna  he  was  all  things 
— fulfilment,  lover  and  child,  and  also  a  Sign  and  a  Second 
Coming. 

She  could  think  of  nothing  else.  Once  again  Ansdore 
was  failing  her,  as  it  always  failed  her  in  any  crisis  of  emo- 
tion— Ansdore  could  never  be  big  enough  to  fill  her  heart. 
But  she  valued  it  because  of  the  consequence  it  must  give 
her  in  young  Hill's  eyes,  and  she  was  impressed  by  the  idea 
that  her  own  extra  age  and  importance  gave  her  the  rights 
of  approach  normally  belonging  to  the  man.  .  .  .  Queens 
always  invited  consorts  to  share  their  thrones,  and  she  was 
a  queen,  opening  her  gates  to  the  man  she  loved.  There 
could  be  no  question  of  her  leaving  her  house  for  his — he 
was  only  a  little  clerk  earning  two  pounds  a  week,  and  she 
was  Squire  of  the  Manor.  Possibly  this  very  fact  made 
him  hesitate,  fear  to  presume.  .  .  .  Well,  she  must  show 
him  he  was  wrong,  anrl  this  Whitsuntide  was  her  oppor- 
tunity. But  she  wished  that  she  could  feel  more  queenly  in 
her  mind — less  abject,  craving  anrl  troubled.  In  outward 
circumstances  she  was  his  queen,  but  in  her  heart  she  was 
his  slave. 

She  plunged  into  an  orgy  of  preparation.  Mrs.  Tolhurst 
and  Mene  Tekel  and  the  new  girl  from  Windpumps  who 
now  reinforced  the  household  were  nearly  driven  off  their 


290  JOANNA    GODDEN 

legs.  Ellen  spared  the  wretched  man  much  in  the  way  of 
feather-beds — just  one  down  mattress  would  be  enough, 
town  people  weren't  used  to  sleeping  on  feathers.  She  also 
chastened  the  scheme  of  decoration,  and  substituted  fresh 
flowers  for  the  pampas  grasses  which  Joanna  thought  the 
noblest  adornment  possible  for  a  spare  bedroom.  On  the 
whole  Ellen  behaved  very  well  about  Albert  Hill — she 
worked  her  best  to  give  him  a  favourable  impression  of 
Ansdore  as  a  household,  and  when  he  came  she  saw  that  he 
and  her  sister  were  as  much  alone  together  as  possible. 

"He  isn't  at  all  the  sort  of  brother-in-law  I'd  like  you  to 
have,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Tip,  "but  if  you'd  seen  some  of 
the  men  Joanna's  taken  up  with  you'd  realise  it  might  have 
been  much  worse.  I'm  told  she  once  had  a  most  hectic  ro- 
mance with  her  own  shepherd  .  .  .  she's  frightfully  im- 
pressionable, you  know." 

"Is  she  really?"  said  Tip  in  his  slow,  well-bred  voice. 
"I  shouldn't  have  thought  that." 

"No,  because — dear  old  Jo !  It's  so  funny — she's  quite 
without  art.  But  she's  always  been  frightfully  keen  on 
men,  though  she  never  could  attract  the  right  sort ;  and  for 
some  reason  or  other — to  do  with  the  farm,  I  suppose — 
she's  never  been  keen  on  marriage.  Now  lately  I've  been 
thinking  she  really  ought  to  marry — lately  she's  been  getting 
quite  queer — detraquce — and  I  do  think  she  ought  to  settle 
down." 

"But  Hill's  much  younger  than  she  is." 

"Joanna  would  never  care  for  anyone  older.  She's  al- 
ways liked  boys — it's  because  she  wants  to  be  sure  of  being 
boss,  I  suppose.  I  know  for  a  fact  she's  turned  down  nearly 
half  a  dozen  good,  respectable,  well-to-do  farmers  of  her 
own  age  or  older  than  herself.  And  yet  I've  sometimes 
felt  nervous  about  her  and  Peter  Crouch,  the  groom.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  tell  you,  Jo's  queer,  and  I'll  be  thankful  if  she  marries 
Bertie  Hill,  even  though  he  is  off  the  mark.  After  all, 
Tip — "  and  Ellen  looked  charming — "Jo  and  I  aren't  real 
ladies,  you  know." 


JOANNA   GODDEN  291 

§  20 

Albert  was  able  to  get  off  on  the  Friday  afternoon,  and 
arrived  at  Ansdore  in  time  for  the  splendours  of  late  dinner 
and  a  bath  in  the  new  bathroom.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  it,  thought  he,  that  he  was  on  a  good  thing,  which- 
ever way  it  ended.  She  must  have  pots  of  money  .  .  . 
everything  of  the  very  best  .  .  .  and  her  sister  marrying  no 
end  of  a  swell — Ernley  who  played  for  Sussex,  and  was 
obviously  topnotch  in  every  other  way.  Perhaps  he 
wouldn't  be  such  a  fool,  after  all,  if  he  married  her.  He 
would  be  a  country  gentleman  with  plenty  of  money  and  a 
horse  to  ride — better  than  living  single  till,  with  luck,  he 
got  a  rise,  and  married  inevitably  one  of  his  female  ac- 
quaintance, to  live  in  the  suburbs  on  an  income  of  three 
hundred.  .  .  .  And  she  was  such  a  splendid  creature — 
otherwise  he  would  not  have  thought  of  it — but  in  attraction 
she  could  give  points  to  any  girl,  and  her  beauty,  having 
flowered  late,  would  probably  last  a  good  while  longer.  .  .  . 

But — that  night  as  he  sat  at  his  bedroom  window,  smok- 
ing a  succession  of  Gold  Flake  cigarettes,  he  saw  many 
other  aspects  of  the  situation.  The  deadly  quiet  of  Ansdore 
in  the  night,  with  all  the  blackness  of  the  Marsh  waiting  for 
the  unriscn  moon,  was  to  him  a  symbol  of  what  his  life 
would  be  if  he  married  Joanna.  lie  would  perish  if  he  got 
stuck  in  a  hole  like  this,  and  yet — he  thus  far  acknowledged 
her  qucenship — he  could  never  ask  her  to  come  out  of  it. 
He  could  not  picture  her  living  in  streets — she  wouldn't  fit 
— but  then,  neither  would  he  fit  down  here.  lie  liked  streets 
and  gaiety  and  noise  and  i)icture-palaccs.  ...  If  she'd 
been  younger  he  might  have  risked  it,  but  at  her  age — thir- 
teen years  older  than  he  (she  had  told  him  her  age  in  an 
expansive  moment) — it  was  really  impossible.  But,  damn 
it  all !  She  was  gorgeous — and  he'd  rather  have  her  than 
any  younger  woman.  He  couldn't  make  her  out — she  must 
see  the  folly  of  marriage  as  well  as  he  .  .  .  then  why  was 
she  encouraging  him  like  this? — Leading  him  on  into  an  im- 


292  JOANNA    GODDEN 

possible  situation?  Gradually  he  was  drifting  back  into 
antagonism — he  felt  urged  to  conquest,  not  merely  for  the 
gratification  of  his  vanity  or  even  for  the  attainment  of  his 
desire,  but  for  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  humbled,  all  her 
pride  and  glow  and  glory  at  his  feet,  like  a  tiger-lily  in  the 
dust. 

The  next  day  Joanna  drove  him  into  Lydd,  and  in  the 
afternoon  took  him  inland,  to  Ruckinge  and  Warchorne. 
These  drives  were  another  reconstruction  of  her  life  with 
Martin,  though  now  she  no  longer  loved  Albert  only  in  his 
second-coming  aspect.  She  loved  him  passionately  and 
childishly  for  himself — the  free  spring  of  his  hair  from  his 
forehead,  not  merely  because  it  had  also  been  Martin's  but 
because  it  was  his — the  impudence  as  well  as  the  softness  of 
his  eyes,  the  sulkiness  as  well  as  the  sensitiveness  of  his 
mouth,  the  unlike  as  well  as  the  like.  She  loved  his  quick, 
Cockney  accent,  his  Cockney  oaths  when  he  forgot  himself 
— the  way  he  always  said  "Yeyss"  instead  of  "yes" — his 
little  assumptions  of  vanity  in  socks  and  tie.  She  loved  a 
queer  blend  of  Albert  and  Martin,  the  real  and  the  imagi- 
nary, substance  and  dream. 

As  for  him,  he  was  enjoying  himself.  Driving  about  the 
country  with  a  fine  woman  like  Joanna,  with  privileges  con- 
tinually on  the  increase,  was  satisfactory  even  if  no  more 
than  an  interlude. 

"Where  shall  we  go  tomorrow  ?"  he  asked  her,  as  they  sat 
in  the  parlour  after  dinner,  leaving  the  garden  to  Ellen 
and  Tip. 

"Tomorrow?    Why,  that's  Sunday." 

"But  can't  we  go  anywhere  on  Sunday  ?" 

"To  church,  of  course." 

"But  won't  you  take  me  out  for  another  lovely  drive?  I 
was  hoping  we  could  go  out  all  day  tomorrow.  It's  going 
to  be  ever  so  fine." 

"Maybe,  but  T  was  brought  up  to  go  to  church  on  Sun- 
days, and  on  Whit  Sunday  of  all  other  Sundays." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  293 

"But  this  Sunday's  going  to  be  different  from  all  other 
Sundays — and  from  all  other  Whit  Sundays.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her  meaningly  out  of  his  bold,  melting  eyes, 
and  she  surrendered.  She  could  not  deny  him  in  this  matter 
any  more  than  in  most  others.  .  .  .  She  could  not  disap- 
point him  any  more  than  she  could  disappoint  a  child.  He 
should  have  his  drive — she  would  take  him  over  to  New 
Romney,  even  though  it  was  written  "Neither  thou  nor 
thine  ox  nor  thine  ass  nor  the  stranger  that  is  within  thy 
gates." 

§  21 

So  the  next  morning  when  Brodnyx  bells  were  ringing 
in  the  east  she  drove  off  through  Pedlinge  on  her  way  to 
Broomhill  level.  She  felt  rather  uneasy  and  ashamed, 
especially  when  she  passed  the  churchgoing  people.  It  was 
the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  voluntarily  missed 
going  to  church — for  hundreds  of  Sundays  she  had  walked 
along  that  flat  white  lick  of  road,  her  big  Prayer  Book  in 
her  hand,  and  had  gone  under  that  ancient  porch  to  kneel  in 
her  huge  cattlc-jjcn  [)cw  with  its  abounding  hassocks.  Even 
the  removal  of  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn,  and  the  transfor- 
mation of  her  comfortable,  established  religion  into  a  dis- 
quieting mystery,  had  not  made  her  allegiance  falter.  She 
still  loved  Brodnyx  church,  even  now  when  hassocks  were 
no  longer  its  chief  ecclesiastical  ornament.  She  thought 
regretfully  of  her  empty  place  and  shamefully  of  her  neigh- 
bours' comments  on  it. 

It  was  a  sunless  day,  with  grey  clouds  hanging  over  a 
dull  green  marsh,  streaked  with  channels  of  green  water. 
The  air  was  still  and  heavy  with  the  scent  of  may  and 
meadowsweet  and  ri])ening  hayseed.  They  drove  as  far  as 
the  crlges  of  Dunge  Marsh,  then  turned  eastward  along  the 
shingle  road  which  runs  across  the  root  of  the  Ness  to  Lydd. 
The  little  mare's  chocolate  flanks  were  all  a-sweat,  and 
Joanna  thoutjht  it  better  to  bait  at  Lydd  and  rest  during 
the  heat  of  the  day. 


294  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"You'd  never  think  it  was  Whitsun,"  said  Albert,  looking 
out  of  the  inn  window  at  the  sunny,  empty  street.  "You 
don't  seem  to  get  much  of  a  crowd  down  here.  Rum  old 
place,  ain't  it?" 

Already  Joanna  was  beginning  to  notice  a  difference  be- 
tween his  outlook  and  Martin's. 

"What  d'you  do  with  yourself  out  here  all  day?"  he 
continued. 

"I've  plenty  to  do." 

"Well,  it  seems  to  agree  with  you — I  never  saw  anyone 
look  finer.    You're  really  a  wonder,  old  thing." 

He  picked  up  the  large  hand  lying  on  the  table-cloth  and 
kissed  it  back  and  palm.  From  any  other  man,  even  from 
Martin  himself,  she  would  have  received  the  caress  quite 
simply,  been  proud  and  contented,  but  now  it  brought  her 
into  a  strange  trouble.  She  leaned  towards  him,  falling 
upon  his  shoulder,  her  face  against  his  neck.  She  wanted 
his  kisses,  and  he  gave  them  to  her. 

At  about  three  o'clock  they  set  out  again.  The  sun  was 
just  as  hot,  but  the  air  was  cooler,  for  it  had  lost  its  stillness 
and  blew  in  rippling  gusts  from  the  sea.  Joanna  resolved 
not  to  go  on  to  New  Romney,  as  they  had  waited  too  long 
at  Lydd ;  so  she  took  the  road  that  goes  to  Ivychurch,  past 
Midley  chapel,  one  of  the  ruined  shrines  of  the  monks  of 
Canterbury — grey  walls  huddled  against  a  white  tower  of 
hawthorn  in  which  the  voices  of  the  birds  tinkled  like  little 
bells. 

She  was  now  beginning  to  feel  more  happy  and  self- 
confident,  but  she  was  still  preoccupied,  though  with  a  new 
situation.  They  had  now  been  alone  together  for  five  hours, 
and  Albert  had  not  said  a  word  about  the  marriage  on 
which  her  hopes  were  set.  Her  ideas  as  to  her  own  right 
of  initiative  had  undergone  a  change.  He  was  in  all  matters 
of  love  so  infinitely  more  experienced  than  she  was  that  she 
could  no  longer  imagine  herself  taking  the  lead.  Hitherto 
she  had  considered  herself  as  experienced  and  capable  in 
love  as  in  other  things — had  she  not  been  engaged  for  five 


JOANNA    GODDEN  295 

months?  Had  she  not  received  at  least  half  a  dozen  offers 
of  marriage?  But  Albert  had  "learned  her  different."  His 
sure,  almost  careless  touch  abashed  her,  and  the  occasional 
fragments  of  autobiography  which  he  let  fall,  showed  her 
that  she  was  a  limited  and  ignorant  recluse  compared  to 
this  boy  of  twenty-five.  In  matters  of  money  and  achieve- 
ment she  might  brag,  but  in  matters  of  love  she  was 
strangely  subservient  to  him,  because  in  such  matters  he  had 
everything  to  teach  her. 

They  stopped  for  tea  at  Ivychurch;  the  little  inn  and  the 
big  church  beside  the  New  Sewer  were  hazed  over  in  a 
cloud  of  floating  sunshine  and  dust.  She  had  been  here 
before  with  Martin,  and  after  tea  she  and  Albert  went  into 
the  church  and  looked  round  them.  But  she  realised  that 
his  interest  in  old  places  was  not  the  same  as  Martin's.  He 
called  things  "quaint"  and  "rummy,"  and  quoted  anything 
he  had  read  about  them  in  the  guide-book,  but  he  could  not 
make  them  come  alive  in  a  strange  re-born  youth — he  could 
not  make  her  feci  the  beauty  of  the  great  sea  on  which  the 
French  ships  had  ridden,  or  the  splendours  of  the  marsh 
before  the  Flood,  with  all  its  towns  and  taverns  and  steeples. 
Unconsciously  she  missed  this  appeal  to  her  sleeping  imagi- 
nation, and  her  bringing  of  him  into  the  great  church,  which 
could  have  held  all  the  village  in  its  aisles,  was  an  effort  to 
supply  what  was  lacking. 

But  Albert's  attitude  toward  the  church  was  critical  and 
unsatisfactory.  It  was  much  too  big  for  the  village.  It  was 
ridiculous  .  .  .  that  little  clump  of  chairs  in  all  that  huge 
emptiness  .  .  .  what  a  waste  of  money,  paying  a  parson  to 
idle  away  his  time  among  a  dozen  people !  .  .  .  "How 
Dreadful  is  this  Place"  ran  the  painted  legend  over  the 
arches.  .  .  .  Joanna  trembled. 

They  came  out  on  the  further  side  of  the  churchyard, 
where  a  little  path  leads  away  into  the  hawthorns  of  the 
New  Sewer.  A  faint  sunshine  was  spotting  it  through  the 
branches,  and  suddenly  Joanna's  heart  grew  warm  and 
heavy  with  love.     She  wanted  some  sheltered  corner  where 


296  JOANNA    GODDEN 

she  could  hold  his  hand,  feel  his  rough  coat-sleeve  under  her 
cheek — or,  dearer  still,  carry  his  head  on  her  bosom,  that 
heavenly  weight  of  a  man's  head,  with  the  coarse,  springing 
hair  to  pull  and  stroke.  .  .  .  She  put  her  arm  into  his. 

"Bertie,  let's  go  and  sit  over  there  in  the  shade." 

He  smiled  at  the  innocence  of  her  contrivance. 

"Shall  wc?"  he  said,  teasing  her — "won't  it  make  us  late 
for  dinner?" 

"We  don't  have  dinner  on  Sundays — we  have  supper  at 
eight,  so  as  to  let  the  gals  go  to  church." 

Her  eyes  looked,  serious  and  troubled,  into  his.  He 
pressed  her  hand. 

"You  darling  thing." 

They  moved  away  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  church,  fol- 
lowing the  little  path  down  to  the  channel's  bank.  The 
water  was  of  a  clear,  limpid  green,  new-flushed  with  the 
tide,  with  a  faint  stickle  moving  down  it,  carrying  the  white, 
fallen  petals  of  the  may.  The  banks  were  rich  with  loose- 
strife and  meadowsweet,  and  as  they  walked  on,  the  arching 
of  ha.wthorn  and  willow  made  of  the  stream  and  the  path 
beside  it  a  little  tunnel  of  shade  and  scent. 

The  distant  farmyard  sounds  which  spoke  of  Ivychurch 
behind  them  gradually  faded  into  a  thick  silence.  Joanna 
could  feel  Bertie  leaning  against  her  as  they  walked,  he  was 
playing  with  her  hand,  locking  and  unlocking  her  fingers 
with  his.  Weren't  men  queer  .  .  .  the  sudden  way  they 
melted  at  a  touch?  Martin  had  been  like  that — losing  his 
funny  sulks.  .  .  .  And  now  Bertie  was  just  the  same.  She 
felt  convinced  that  in  one  moment  ...  in  two  ...  he 
would  ask  her  to  be  his  wife.  .  .  . 

"Let's  sit  down  for  a  bit,"  she  suggested. 

They  sat  down  by  the  water  side,  crushing  the  meadow- 
sweet till  its  sickliness  grew  almost  fierce  with  bruising. 
She  sidled  into  his  arms,  and  her  own  crept  round  him. 
"Bertie  .  .  ."  she  whispered.  Her  heart  was  throbbing 
quickly  and,  as  it  were,  very  high — in  her  throat — choking 


JOANNA    GODDEN  297 

her.  She  began  to  tremble.  Looking  up  she  saw  his  eyes 
above  her,  gazing  down  at  her  out  of  a  mist — everything 
seemed  misty,  trees  and  sky  and  sunshine  and  his  dear  face. 
.  .  .  She  was  holding  him  very  tight,  so  tight  that  she  could 
feel  his  collar-bones  bruising  her  arms.  He  was  kissing  her 
now,  and  his  kisses  were  like  blows.  She  suddenly  became 
afraid,  and  struggled. 

"Jo,  Jo — don't  be  a  fool — don't  put  me  off,  now  .  .  .  you 
can't,  I  tell  you." 

But  she  had  come  to  herself. 

"No — let  me  go.     I  .  .  .  it's  late — I've  got  to  go  home." 

She  was  strong  enough  to  push  him  from  her,  and  scram- 
bled to  her  feet.  They  both  stood  facing  each  other  in  the 
trodden  streamside  flowers. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter."     She  was  ashamed. 


§  22 

She  was  frightened,  too — never  in  her  life  had  she 
imagined  that  she  could  drift  so  far  as  she  had  drifted  in 
those  few  seconds.  She  was  still  trembling  as  she  led  the 
way  back  to  the  church.  She  could  hear  hiin  treading  after 
her,  and  as  she  thought  of  him  her  heart  smote  her.  She 
felt  as  if  she  had  hurt  him — oh,  what  had  she  done  to  him? 
What  had  she  denied  him?  What  had  she  given  him  to 
think? 

As  they  climbed  into  the  trap  she  could  tell  that  he  was 
sulking.  lie  looked  at  her  half-defiant ly  from  under  his 
long  lashes,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  were  turned  down 
like  a  child's.  The  drive  home  was  constrained  and  nearly 
silent.  Joanna  tried  to  talk  about  the  grazings  they  had 
broken  at  Yokes  Court,  in  imitation  of  her  own  successful 
grain-growing,  about  her  Appeal  to  the  High  Court  whicli 
was  to  be  heard  that  Summer,  and  the  inotor-car  she  would 
buy  if  it  was  successful — but  it  was  obvious  that  they  both 


298  JOANNA    GODDEN 

were  thinking  of  something  else.  For  the  last  part  of  the 
drive,  from  Brodnyx  to  Ansdore,  neither  of  them  spoke  a 
word. 

The  sunset  was  scattering  the  clouds  ahead  and  filling  the 
spaces  with  lakes  of  gold.-  The  dykes  turned  to  gold,  and  a 
golden  film  lay  over  the  pastures  and  the  reeds.  The  sun 
wheeled  slowly  north,  and  a  huge,  shadowy  horse  and  trap 
began  to  run  beside  them  along  the  embankment  of  the 
White  Kemp  Sewer.  They  turned  up  Ansdore's  drive,  now 
neatly  gravelled  and  gated,  and  a  flood  of  light  burst  over 
the  gables  of  the  house,  pouring  on  Joanna  as  she  climbed 
down  over  the  wheel.  She  required  no  help,  and  she  knew 
it,  but  she  felt  his  hands  pressing  her  waist ;  she  started 
away,  and  she  saw  him  laugh — mocking  her.  She  nearly 
cried. 

The  rest  of  that  evening  was  awkward  and  unhappy. 
She  had  a  vague  feeling  in  her  heart  that  she  had  treated 
Albert  badly,  and  yet  .  .  .  the  strange  thing  was  that  she 
shrank  from  an  explanation.  It  had  always  been  her  habit 
to  "have  things  out"  on  all  occasions,  and  many  a  misunder- 
standing had  been  strengthened  thereby.  But  tonight  she 
could  not  bear  the  thought  of  being  left  alone  with  Albert. 
For  one  thing,  she  was  curiously  vague  as  to  the  situation — 
was  she  to  blame  or  was  he  ?  Had  she  gone  too  far  or  not 
far  enough?  What  was  the  matter,  after  all?  There  was 
nothing  to  lay  hold  of.  .  .  .  Joanna  was  unused  to  this 
nebulous  state  of  mind  ;  it  made  her  head  ache,  and  she  was 
glad  when  the  time  came  to  go  to  bed. 

With  a  blessed  sense  of  relief  she  felt  the  whitewashed 
thickness  of  her  bedroom  walls  between  her  and  the  rest  of 
the  house.  She  did  not  trouble  to  light  her  candle.  Her 
room  was  in  darkness,  except  for  one  splash  of  light  re- 
flected from  her  mirror  which  held  the  moon.  She  went 
over  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  marsh  swam  in  a 
yellow,  misty  lake  of  moonlight.  There  was  a  strange  air 
of  unsubstantiality  about  it — the  earth  was  not  the  solid 
earth,  the  watercourses  were  moonlight  rather  than  water, 


JOANNA    GODDEN  299 

the  light  was  water  rather  than  light,  the  trees  were 
shadows.  .  .  , 

"Ah-h-h,"  said  Joanna  Godden. 

She  lifted  her  arms  to  her  head  with  a  gesture  of  weari- 
ness— as  she  took  out  the  pins,  her  hair  fell  on  her  shoulders 
in  great  hanks  and  masses,  golden  and  unsubstantial  as  the 
moon. 

Slowly  and  draggingly  she  began  to  unfasten  her  clothes 
— they  fell  off  her,  and  lay  like  a  pool  round  her  feet.  She 
plunged  into  her  stifif  cotton  nightgown,  buttoning  it  at  neck 
and  wrists.  Then  she  knelt  by  her  bed  and  said  her  prayers 
— the  same  prayers  that  she  had  said  ever  since  she  was  five. 

The  moonlight  was  coming  straight  into  the  room — show- 
ing its  familiar  corners.  There  was  no  trace  of  Ellen  in 
this  room — nothing  that  was  "artistic"  or  "in  good  taste." 
A  lively  pattern  covered  everything  that  could  be  so  covered, 
but  Joanna's  sentimental  love  of  old  associations  had  spared 
the  original  furniture — the  wide  feather  bed,  the  oaken 
chest  of  drawers,  the  wash-stand  which  was  just  a  great 
chest  covered  with  a  towel.  Over  her  bed  hung  Poor 
Father's  Buffalo  Certificate,  the  cherished  symbol  of  all 
that  was  solid  and  prosperous  and  reputable  in  life. 

She  lay  in  bed.  After  she  got  in  she  realised  that  she  had 
forgotten  to  i)lait  her  hair,  but  she  felt  too  languid  for  the 
efTort.  Ilcr  hair  spread  round  her  on  the  pillow  like  a  re- 
proach. For  some  mysterious  reason  her  tears  began  to 
fall.  Her  life  seemed  to  reproach  her.  She  saw  all  her 
life  stretching  behind  her  from  a  moment — the  moment 
when  she  had  stood  before  Socknersh,  her  shepherd,  seeing 
him  dark  against  the  sky,  between  the  sun  :\n(\  moon.  That 
was  when  Men,  properly  speaking,  had  begun  for  her — and 
it  was  fifteen  years  since  then — and  where  was  she  now? 
Still  at  Ansdore,  still  without  her  man. 

Albert  had  not  asked  her  to  marry  him,  nor,  she  felt  des- 
perately, did  he  mean  to.  If  he  did.  he  would  surely  have 
spoken  today.  And  now  besides,  he  was  angry  with  her, 
disappointed,  estranged.     She  had  upset  him  by  turning  cold 


300  JOANNA   GODDEN 

like  that  all  of  a  sudden.  .  ,  ,  But  what  was  she  saying? 
Why,  of  course  she  had  been  quite  right.  She  should  ought 
to  have  been  cold  from  the  start.  That  was  her  mistake — 
letting  the  thing  start  when  it  could  have  no  seemly  ending 
...  a  boy  like  that,  nearly  young  enough  to  be  her  son 
.  .  .  and  yet  she  had  been  unable  to  deny  him,  she  had  let 
him  kiss  her  and  court  her — make  love  to  her.  .  .  .  Worse 
than  that,  she  had  made  love  to  him,  thrown  herself  at  him, 
pursued  him  with  her  love,  refused  to  let  him  go  .  .  .  and 
all  the  other  things  she  had  done — changing  for  his  sake 
from  her  decent  ways  .  .  .  breaking  the  Sabbath,  taking  off 
her  neck-band.  She  had  been  getting  irreligious  and  im- 
modest, and  now  she  was  unhappy  and  it  served  her  right. 

The  house  was  quite  still ;  everyone  had  gone  to  bed,  and 
the  moon  filled  the  middle  of  the  window,  splashing  the 
bed,  and  Joanna  in  it,  and  the  walls,  and  the  sagging  beams 
of  the  ceiling.  She  thought  of  getting  up  to  pull  down  the 
blind,  but  had  no  more  energy  to  do  that  than  to  bind  her 
hair.  She  wanted  desperately  to  go  to  sleep.  She  lay  on 
her  side,  her  head  burrowed  down  into  the  pillow,  her  hands 
clenched  under  her  chin.  Her  bed  was  next  the  door,  and 
beyond  the  door,  against  the  wall  at  right  angles  to  it,  was 
her  chest  of  drawers,  with  Martin's  photograph  in  its  black 
frame,  and  the  photograph  of  his  tombstone  in  a  frame  with 
a  lily  worked  on  it.  Her  eyes  strained  towards  them  in  the 
darkness  .  .  ,  oh,  Martin — Martin,  why  did  I  ever  forget 
you?  .  .  ,  But  I  never  forgot  you  .  .  .  Martin,  I've  never 
had  my  man.  .  ,  .  I've  got  money,  two  farms,  lovely  clothes 
— I'm  just  as  good  as  a  lady  .  .  .  but  I've  never  had  my 
man.  .  .  .  Seemingly  I'll  go  down  into  the  grave  without 
him  .  .  .  but  oh,  I  do  want  .  .  ,  the  thing  I  was  born 
for.  .  ,  . 

Sobs  shook  her  broad  shoulders  as  she  lay  there  in  the 
moonlis^ht.  But  they  did  not  relieve  her — her  sobs  ploughed 
deep  into  her  soul  .  .  .  they  turned  strange  furrows.  .  .  . 
Oh.  she  was  a  bad  woman,  who  deserved  no  happiness. 
She'd  always  known  it. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  301 

She  lifted  her  head,  straining  her  eyes  through  the  dark- 
ness and  tears  to  gaze  at  Martin's  photograph  as  if  it  were 
the  Serpent  in  the  Wilderness.  Perhaps  all  this  had  come 
upon  her  because  she  had  been  untrue  to  his  memory — and 
yet  what  had  so  appealed  to  her  about  Bertie  was  that  he 
was  like  Martin,  though  Ellen  said  he  wasn't — well,  perhaps 
he  wasn't.  .  .  .  But  what  was  happening  now  ?  Something 
had  come  between  her  and  the  photograph  on  the  chest  of 
drawers.  With  a  sudden  chill  at  her  heart,  she  realised  that 
it  was  the  door  opening. 

"Who's  there?"  she  cried  in  a  hoarse  angry  whisper. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  dear — don't  be  frightened,  my 
sweet  Jo — "  said  Bertie  Hill. 

§23 

She  could  not  think — she  could  only  feel.  It  was  morn- 
ing— that  white  light  was  morning,  though  it  was  like  the 
moon.  Under  it  the  marsh  lay  like  a  land  under  the  sea — 
it  must  have  looked  like  this  when  the  keels  of  the  French 
boats  swam  over  it,  high  above  Ansdore,  and  Brodnyx,  and 
Pedlinge,  lying  like  red  apples  far  beneath,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea.  That  was  nonsense  .  .  .  but  she  could  not  think 
this  morning,  she  could  only  feel. 

He  had  not  been  gone  an  hour,  but  she  must  find  him. 
She  must  be  with  him — just  feel  him  near  her.  She  must 
see  his  head  against  the  window,  hear  the  heavy,  slow 
sounds  of  his  moving.  She  slipped  on  her  clothes  and 
twisted  up  her  hair,  and  went  down  into  the  empty,  stirless 
house.  No  one  was  about — even  her  own  people  were  in 
bed.  The  sun  was  not  yet  up,  but.  the  white  dawn  was 
pouring  into  the  house,  through  the  windows,  through  the 
chinks.  Joanna  stood  in  the  midst  of  it.  Then  she  opened 
the  door  and  went  oiit  into  the  yard,  which  was  a  pool  of 
cold  light,  ringed  round  with  barns  and  buildings  antl  reed- 
thatched  haystacks.  It  was  queer  hr>w  this  cold,  still,  trem- 
bling dawn  hurt  her — seemed  to  flow  into  her,  to  be  part  of 


302  JOANNA    GODDEN 

herself,  and  yet  to  wound.  .  .  .  She  had  never  felt  like  this 
before — she  could  never  have  imagined  that  love  would 
make  her  feel  like  this,  would  make  her  see  beauty  in  her 
forsaken  yard  at  dawn — not  only  see  but  feel  that  beauty, 
physically,  as  pain.  Her  heart  wounded  her — her  knees 
were  failing — she  went  back  into  the  house. 

A  wooden  chair  stood  in  the  passage  outside  the  kitchen 
door,  and  she  sat  down  on  it.  She  was  still  unable  to  think, 
and  she  knew  now  that  she  did  not  want  to  think — it  might 
make  her  afraid.  She  wanted  only  to  remember.  .  .  .  He 
had  called  her  the  loveliest,  sweetest,  most  beautiful  woman 
in  the  world.  .  .  .  She  repeated  his  words  over  and  over 
again,  calling  up  the  look  with  which  he  had  said  them  ,  .  . 
oh,  those  eyes  of  his — slanty,  saucy,  secret,  loving  eyes.  .  .  . 

She  wondered  why  he  did  not  come  down.  She  could  not 
imagine  that  he  had  turned  into  bed  and  gone  to  sleep — 
that  he  did  not  know  she  was  sitting  here  waiting  for  him 
in  the  dawn.  For  a  moment  she  thought  of  going  up  and 
knocking  at  his  door — then  she  heard  a  thud  of  footsteps 
and  creaking  of  boards,  which  announced  that  Mcnc  Tckel 
and  Nan  Gregory  of  Windpumps  were  stirring  in  their  bed- 
room. In  an  incredibly  short  time  they  were  coming  down- 
stairs, tying  apronstrings  and  screwing  up  hair  as  they  went, 
and  making  a  terrific  stump  past  the  door  behind  which  they 
imagined  their  mistress  w^as  in  bed.  It  was  a  great  shock  to 
them  to  find  that  she  was  downstairs  before  them — they 
weren't  more  than  five  minutes  late. 

"Hurry  up,  gals,"  said  Joanna,  "and  get  that  kettle  boil- 
ing for  the  men.  I  hear  Broadhurst  about  in  the  yard. 
Mene  Tekel,  see  as  there's  no  clinkers  left  in  the  grate; 
Mrs.  Alee  never  got  her  bath  yesterday  evening  before  din- 
ner as  she  expects  it.    When  did  you  do  the  flues  last?" 

She  set  her  household  about  its  business — her  dreams 
could  not  live  in  the  atmosphere  of  antagonistic  suspicion 
in  which  she  had  always  viewed  the  younger  members  of 
her  own  sex.  She  was  firmly  convinced  that  neither  Nan 
nor  Mene  would  do  a  stroke  of  work  if  she  was  not  "at 


JOANNA    GODDEN  303 

them" ;  the  same  opinion  appHed  in  a  lesser  degree  to  the 
men  in  the  yard.  So  till  Ansdore's  early  breakfast  ap- 
peared amid  much  hustling  and  scolding,  Joanna  had  no 
time  to  think  about  her  lover,  or  continue  the  dreams  so 
strangely  and  gloriously  begun  in  the  sunless  dawn. 

Bertie  was  late  for  breakfast,  and  came  down  apologising 
for  having  overslept  himself.  But  he  had  a  warm,  sleepy, 
rumpled  look  about  him  which  made  her  forgive  him.  He 
was  like  a  little  boy — her  little  boy  .  .  .  she  dropped  her 
eyelids  over  her  tears. 

After  breakfast,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  she  stole  into 
his  arms  and  held  close  to  him,  without  embrace,  her  hands 
just  clasped  over  her  breast  on  which  her  chin  had  fallen. 
He  tried  to  raise  her  burning,  blushing  face,  but  she  turned 
it  to  his  shoulder. 

§  24 

Albert  Hill  went  back  to  London  on  Tuesday,  but  he 
came  down  again  the  following  week-end,  and  the  next,  and 
the  next,  and  then  his  engagement  to  Joanna  was  made 
public. 

In  this  respect  the  trick  was  hers.  The  affair  had  ended 
in  a  committal  which  he  had  not  expected,  but  his  own  vic- 
tory was  too  substantial  for  him  to  regret  any  development 
of  it  to  her  advantage.  Besides,  he  had  seen  the  impossi- 
bility of  conducting  the  aflfair  on  any  other  lines,  both  on 
account  of  the  circumstances  in  which  she  lived  and  of  her 
passionate  distress  when  she  realised  that  lie  did  not  con- 
sider marriage  an  inevitable  consequence  of  their  relation. 
It  was  his  only  way  of  keeping  her — and  he  could  not  let 
her  go.  She  was  adorable,  and  the  years  between  them 
meant  nothing — her  beauty  had  wiped  thc?Ti  out.  He  could 
think  of  her  only  as  the  ageless  woman  he  loved,  who 
shared  the  passion  of  his  own  youth  and  in  it  was  forever 
young. 

On  the  practical  side,  too,  he  was  better  reconciled.  He 
felt  a  pang  of  regret  when  he  thought  of  London  and  its 


304  JOANNA    GODDEN 

work  and  pleasures,  of  his  chances  of  a  "rise" — which  his 
superiors  had  hinted  was  now  imminent — of  a  head  clerk- 
ship, perhaps  eventually  of  a  partnership  and  a  tight  mar- 
riage into  the  business — since  his  Whitsuntide  visit  to 
Ansdore  he  had  met  the  junior  partner's  daughter  and 
found  her  as  susceptible  to  his  charms  as  most  young 
women.  But  after  all  his  position  as  Joanna  Godden's 
husband  would  be  better  even  than  that  of  a  partner  in 
the  firm  of  Sherwood  and  Son.  What  was  Sherwood's 
but  a  firm  of  carpet-makers? — a  small  firm  of  carpet- 
makers.  As  Joanna's  husband  he  would  be  a  Country  Gen- 
tleman, perhaps  even  a  County  Gentleman.  He  saw  himself 
going  out  with  his  gun  .  .  .  following  the  hounds  in  a  pink 
coat.  .  .  .  He  forgot  that  he  could  neither  shoot  nor  ride. 

Meantime  his  position  as  Joanna's  lover  was  not  an  un- 
enviable one.  She  adored  and  spoiled  him  like  a  child. 
She  pressed  gifts  uix)n  him — a  gold  wrist-watch,  a  real 
panama  hat,  silk  socks  in  gorgeous  colours,  boxes  and 
boxes  of  the  best  Turkish  and  Egyptian  cigarettes — she 
could  not  give  him  enough  to  show  her  love  and  delight 
in  him. 

At  first  he  had  been  a  little  embarrassed  by  this  outpour- 
ing, but  he  was  used  to  receiving  presents  from  women, 
and  he  knew  that  Joanna  had  plenty  of  money  to  spend, 
and  really  got  as  much  pleasure  out  of  her  gifts  as  he  did. 
They  atoned  for  the  poverty  of  her  letters.  She  was  no 
letter-writer.  Her  feelings  were  as  cramped  as  her  hand- 
writing by  the  time  she  had  got  them  down  on  paper ;  in- 
deed, Joanna  herself  was  wondrously  expressed  in  that 
big,  unformed,  constricted  handwriting,  black  yet  uncertain, 
sprawling  yet  constrained,  in  which  she  recorded  such 
facts  as  "Dot  has  calfed  at  last"  or  "Broadhurst  will  be 
61  come  Monday"  or — as  an  utmost  concession — "I  love 
you  dear." 

However,  too  great  a  strain  was  not  put  on  this  frail 
link,  for  he  came  down  to  Ansdore  almost  every  week-end, 
from  Saturday  afternoon  to  early  Monday  morning.     He 


JOANNA    GODDEN  305 

tried  to  persuade  her  to  come  up  to  London  and  stay  at 
his  mother's  house — he  had  vague  hopes  that  perhaps  an 
experience  of  London  might  persuade  her  to  settle  there 
(she  could  afford  a  fine  house  over  at  Blackheath,  or  even 
in  town  itself,  if  she  chose).  But  Joanna  had  a  solid 
prejudice  against  London — the  utmost  she  would  consent 
to  was  to  promise  to  come  up  and  stay  with  Albert's  mother 
when  her  appeal  was  heard  at  the  High  Court  at  the  be- 
ginning of  August.  Edward  Huxtable  had  done  his  best 
to  convince  her  that  her  presence  was  unnecessary,  but 
she  did  not  trust  either  him  or  the  excellent  counsel  he 
had  engaged.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  attend  in  person, 
and  look  after  him  properly. 

§25 

The  attitude  of  Erodnyx  and  Pedlingc  towards  this  new 
crisis  in  Joanna  Godden's  life  was  at  first  uncertain.  The 
first  impression  was  that  she  had  suddenly  taken  fright 
at  the  prospect  of  old-maidenhood,  and  had  grabbed  the 
first  man  she  could  get,  even  though  he  was  young  enough 
to  be  her  son. 

"He  ain't  twenty-one  till  Michaelmas,"  said  Vine  at  the 
Woolpack. 

"She  always  liked  'em  young,"  said  Furnese. 

"Well,  if  she'd  married  Arthur  Alee  when  she  fust  had 
the  chance,  instead  of  hanging  around  atifl  wasting  time 
the  way  she's  done,  by  now  she  could  have  had  a  man  of 
her  intended's  age  for  a  son  instead  of  a  husband." 

"Reckon  it  wouldn't  have  been  llu-  same  thing." 

"No — it  would  have  been  a  better  thing,"  said  Vine. 

When  it  became  known  thai  Joanna's  motive  was  not 
despair  but  love,  public  ()i)inion  turned  against  her.  Albert's 
manner  among  the  marsh  ])eoplc  was  unff)rtunatc.  In  his 
mind  he  had  always  stressed  his  bride's  connections 
through  Ellen — the  Ernleys,  a  fine  old  county  family,  he 
found  it  very  satisfying  to  slap  Tip  Ernley  on  the  back 


306  JOANNA    GODDEN 

and  call  him  "Ole  man."  He  had  deliberately  shut  his  eyes 
to  the  other  side  of  her  acquaintance,  those  marsh  families, 
the  Southlands,  Furneses,  Vines,  Cobbs  and  Bateses,  to 
whom  she  was  bound  by  far  stronger,  older  ties  than  any 
which  held  her  to  Great  Ansdore.  He  treated  these  people 
as  her  and  his  inferiors — unlike  Martin  Trevor,  he  would 
not  submit  to  being  driven  round  and  shown  off  to  Misle- 
ham,  Picknye  Bush,  or  Slinches.  ...  It  was  small  wonder 
that  respectable  families  became  indignant  at  such  airs. 

"What  does  he  think  himself,  I'd  like  to  know?  He's 
nothing  but  a  clerk — such  as  I'd  never  see  my  boy." 

"And  soon  he  won't  be  even  that — he'll  just  be  living  on 
Joanna." 

"She's  going  to  keep  him  at  Ansdore?" 

"Surelye.     She'll  never  move  out  now." 

"But  what's  she  want  to  marry  for,  at  her  age,  and  a 
boy  like  that?" 

"She's  getting  an  old  fool,  I  reckon." 

§26 

The  date  of  the  wedding  was  not  yet  fixed,  though  Sep- 
tember was  spoken  of  rather  vaguely,  and  this  time  the 
hesitation  came  from  the  bridegroom.  As  on  the  occasion 
of  her  first  engagement,  Joanna  had  made  difficulties  with 
the  shearing  and  hay-making,  so  now  Albert  contrived  and 
shifted  in  his  anxiety  to  fit  in  his  marriage  with  other  plans. 

He  had,  it  appeared,  as  far  back  as  last  Christmas,  ar- 
ranged for  a  week's  tour  in  August  with  the  Polytechnic 
to  Lovely  Lucerne.  In  vain  Joanna  promised  him  a  lib- 
eral allowance  of  "Foreign  Parts"  for  their  honeymoon — 
Bertie's  little  soul  hankered  after  the  Polytechnic,  his  pals 
who  were  going  with  him,  and  the  kindred  spirits  he  would 
meet  at  the  chalets.  Going  on  his  honeymoon  as  Joanna 
Godden's  husband  was  a  different  matter  and  could  not 
take  the  place  of  such  an  excursion. 

Joanna  did  not  press  him.     She  was  terribly  afraid  of 


JOANNA    GODDEN  307 

scaring  him  off.  It  had  occurred  to  her  more  than  once 
that  his  bonds  held  him  far  more  lightly  than  she  was  held 
by  hers.  And  the  prospect  of  marriage  was  now  an  abso- 
lute necessity  if  she  was  to  endure  her  memories.  Mar- 
riage alone  could  hallow  and  remake  Joanna  Godden. 
Sometimes,  as  love  became  less  of  a  drug  and  a  bewilder- 
ment, her  thoughts  awoke,  and  she  would  be  overwhelmed 
by  an  almost  incredulous  horror  at  herself.  Could  this 
be  Joanna  Godden,  who  had  turned  away  her  dairy-girl 
for  loose  behaviour,  who  had  been  so  shocked  at  the  adven- 
tures of  her  sister  Ellen?  She  could  never  be  shocked  at 
anyone  again,  seeing  that  she  herself  was  just  as  bad  and 
worse  than  anyone  she  knew.  .  .  .  Oh,  life  was  queer — 
there  was  no  denying.  It  took  you  by  surprise  in  a  way 
you'd  never  think — it  made  you  do  things  so  different  from 
your  proper  notions  that  afterwards  you  could  hardly  be- 
lieve it  was  you  that  had  done  them — it  gave  you  joy  that 
should  ought  to  have  been  sorrow  .  .  .  and  pain  as  you'd 
never  think. 

As  the  Summer  pas.sed  and  the  time  for  her  visit  to  town 
drew  near,  Joanna  began  to  grow  nervous  and  restless.  She 
did  not  like  the  idea  of  going  to  a  place  like  London,  though 
she  dared  not  confess  her  fears  to  the  travelled  Ellen  or 
the  metropolitan  Bertie.  She  felt  vaguelv  that  "no  g0(Kl 
would  come  of  it" — she  had  lived  thirty-eight  years  without 
setting  foot  in  London,  and  it  seemed  like  tempting  Prov- 
idence to  go  there  now.  .  .  . 

However  she  resigned  herself  to  the  journey — indeed 
when  the  time  came,  she  undertook  it  more  carelessly  than 
she  had  undertaken  the  venture  of  her  journey  to  Marlin- 
gate.  Her  one  thought  was  of  Albert,  and  .she  gave  over 
Ansdore  almost  nonchalantly  to  her  carter  and  her  looker, 
and  abandoned  Ellen  to  Tip  Ernley  with  scarcely  a  doubt 
as  to  her  moral  welfare. 

Bertie  met  her  at  Charing  Cross,  and  escorted  her  the 
rest  of  the  way.  He  found  it  hard  to  realise  that  she  had 
never  been  to  London  before,  and  it  annoyed  him  a  little. 


308  JOANNA    GODDEN 

It  would  have  been  all  very  well,  he  told  himself,  in  a  shy 
village  maiden  of  eighteen,  but  in  a  woman  of  Joanna's 
age  and  temperament  it  was  ridiculous.  However,  he  was 
relieved  to  find  that  she  had  none  of  the  manners  of  a 
country  cousin.  Her  self-confidence  prevented  her  being 
flustered  by  strange  surroundings;  her  clothes  were  fash- 
ionable and  well-cut,  perhaps  a  bit  too  showy  for  a  woman 
of  her  type,  she  tipped  lavishly,  and  was  not  afraid  of 
porters.  Neither  did  she,  as  he  feared  at  first,  demand  a 
four-wheeler  instead  of  a  taxi.  On  the  contrary,  she 
insisted  on  driving  all  the  way  to  Lewisham,  instead  of 
taking  another  train,  and  enlarged  on  the  five-seater  touring 
car  she  would  buy  when  she  had  won  her  Case. 

"I  hope  to  goodness  you  will  win  it,  ole  girl,"  said  Bertie 
as  he  slipped  his  arm  round  her — "I've  a  sort  of  feeling 
that  you  ought  to  touch  wood." 

"I'll  win  it  if  there's  justice  in  England." 

"But  perhaps  there  ain't." 

"I  must  win,"  repeated  Joanna  doggedly — "You  sec,  it 
was  like  this.  .  ,  ." 

Not  for  the  first  time  she  proceeded  to  recount  the  sale 
of  Donkey  Street  and  the  way  she  had  applied  the  money. 
He  wished  she  wouldn't  talk  about  that  sort  of  thing  the 
first  hour  they  were  together. 

"I  quite  see,  darling,"  he  exclaimed  in  the  middle  of 
the  narrative,  and  shut  her  mouth  with  a  kiss. 

"Oh,  Bertie,  you  mustn't." 

"Why  not?" 

"We're  in  a  cab — people  will  see." 

"They  won't — they  can't  see  in — and  I'm  not  going  to 
drive  all  this  way  without  kissing  you." 

He  took  hold  of  her. 

"I  won't  have  it — it  ain't  seemly." 

But  he  had  got  a  good  hold  of  her,  and  did  as  he  liked. 

Joanna  was  horrified  and  ashamed.  A  motor  bus  had 
just  glided  past  the  cab  and  she  felt  that  the  eyes  of  all 


JOANNA    GODDEN  309 

the  occupants  were  upon  her.  She  managed  to  push  Albert 
away,  and  sat  very  erect  beside  him,  with  a  red  face. 
"It  ain't  seemly,"  she  muttered  under  her  breath. 
Bertie  was  vexed  with  her.  He  assumed  an  attitude 
intended  to  convey  displeasure.  Joanna  felt  unhappy,  and 
anxious  to  conciliate  him,  but  she  was  aware  that  any  recon- 
ciliation was  bound  to  lead  to  a  repetition  of  that  conduct 
so  eminently  shocking  to  the  occupants  of  passing  motor 
buses.  "I  don't  like  London  folk  to  think  I  don't  know 
how  to  behave  when  I  come  up  to  town,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

Luckily,  just  as  the  situation  was  becoming  unbearable, 
and  her  respectability  on  the  verge  of  collapsing  in  the 
cause  of  peace,  they  stopped  at  the  gate  of  The  Elms, 
Raymond  Avenue,  Lewisham.  Bertie's  annoyance  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  double  anxiety  of  introducing  her  to 
his  family  and  his  family  to  her.  On  both  counts  he  felt 
a  little  gloomy,  for  he  did  not  think  much  of  his  mother 
and  sister  and  did  not  expect  Joanna  to  think  much  of 
them.  At  the  same  time  there  was  no  denying  that  Jo 
was  and  looked  a  good  bit  older  than  he,  and  his  mother 
and  sister  were  quite  capable  of  thinking  he  was  marrying 
her  for  her  money.  She  was  looking  rather  worn  and 
dragged  this  afternoon,  after  her  unaccustomed  railway 
journey — sometimes  you  really  wouldn't  take  her  for  more 
than  thirty,  but  today  she  was  looking  her  full  age. 
"Mother— Agatha— this  is  Jo." 

Joanna  swooped  down  on  the  old  lady  with  a  loud  kiss. 
"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hill  in  a  subdued  voice. 
She  was  very  short  and  small  and  frail-looking,  and  wore 
a  cap — for  the  same  reason  no  doubt  that  she  kept  an 
aspidistra  in  the  dining-room  window,  went  to  church  at 
eleven  o'clock  on  Sundays,  and  had  given  birth  to  Agatha 
and  Albert. 

Agatha  was  evidently  within  a  year  or  two  of  her  broth- 
er's age,  and  she  had  his  large,  melting  eyes,  and  his  hair 
that   sprang  in   a   dark   semi-circle    from   a   low    forehead. 


310  JOANNA    GODDEN 

She  was  most  elegantly  dressed  in  a  peek-a-boo  blouse, 
hobble  skirt,  and  high  heeled  shoes. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  she  said,  and  Joanna  kissed 
her  too. 

"Is  tea  ready?"  asked  Bertie. 

"It  will  be  in  a  minute,  dear — I  can  hear  Her  getting  it." 

They  could  all  do  that,  but  Bertie  seemed  annoyed  that 
they  should  be  kept  waiting. 

"You  might  have  had  it  ready,"  he  said,  "I  expect  you're 
tired,  Jo." 

"Oh,  not  so  terrible,  thanks,"  said  Joanna,  who  felt  sorry 
for  her  future  mother-in-law,  being  asked  to  keep  tea 
stewing  in  the  pot  against  the  uncertain  arrival  of  travellers. 
But,  as  it  happened,  she  did  feel  rather  tired,  and  was  glad 
w^hen  the  door  was  suddenly  kicked  open  and  a  large  tea- 
tray  was  brought  in  and  set  down  violently  on  a  side  table. 

"Cream  and  sugar?"  said  Mrs.  Hill  nervously. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Joanna.  She  felt  a  little  dis- 
concerted by  this  new  household  of  which  she  found  her- 
self a  member.  She  wondered  what  Bertie's  mother  and 
sister  thought  of  his  middle-aged  bride. 

For  a  time  they  all  sat  round  in  silence.  Joanna  covertly 
surveyed  the  drawing-room.  It  was  not  unlike  the  parlour 
at  Ansdore,  but  everything  looked  cheaper — they  couldn't 
have  given  more  than  ten  pound  for  their  carpet,  and  she 
knew  those  fire  irons — six  and  eleven-three  the  set  at  the 
ironmongers.  These  valuations  helped  to  restore  her  self- 
confidence  and  support  the  inspection  which  Agatha  was 
conducting  on  her  side.  "Reckon  the  price  of  my  clothes 
ud  buy  everything  in  this  room,"  she  thought  to  herself. 

"Did  you  have  a  comfortable  journey.  Miss  Godden?" 
asked  Mrs.  Hill. 

"You  needn't  call  her  Miss  Godden,  Ma,"  said  Albert, 
"she's  going  to  be  one  of  the  family." 

"I  had  a  fine  journey,"  said  Joanna,  drowning  Mrs. 
Hill's  apologetic  twitter,  "the  train  came  the  whole  of  sixty 
miles  with  only  one  stop." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  311 

Agatha  giggled,  and  Bertie  stabbed  her  with  a  furious 
glance. 

"Did  you  make  this  tea?"  he  asked. 

"No— She  made  it." 

"I  might  have  thought  as  much.  That  girl  can't  make 
tea  any  better  than  the  cat.  You  really  might  make  it  your- 
self when  we  have  visitors." 

"I  hadn't  time.     I've  only  just  come  in." 

"You  seem  to  be  out  a  great  deal." 

"I've  my  living  to  get." 

Joanna  played  with  her  teaspoon.  She  felt  ill  at  ease, 
though  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  why.  She  had  quarrelled 
too  often  with  Ellen  to  be  surprised  at  any  family  disagree- 
ments— it  was  not  ten  years  since  she  thought  nothing  of 
smacking  Ellen  before  a  disconcerted  public.  What  was 
there  different — and  there  was  something  different — about 
this  wrangle  between  a  brother  and  sister,  that  it  should 
upset  her  so — upset  her  so  much  that  for  some  unaccount- 
able reason  she  should  feel  the  tears  running  out  of  her 
eyes  ? 

On  solemn  ceremonial  occasions  Joanna  always  wore  a 
veil,  and  this  was  now  pushed  up  in  several  folds,  to  facil- 
itate tea-drinking.  She  could  feel  the  tears  wetting  it,  so 
that  it  stuck  to  her  cheeks  under  her  eyes.  She  was  furious 
with  herself,  but  she  could  not  stop  the  tears — she  felt 
oddly  weak  and  shaken.  Agatha  had  flounced  off  with 
the  teapot  to  make  a  fresh  brew,  Albert  was  leaning  gloom- 
ily back  in  his  chair  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  Mrs. 
Hill  was  murmuring — "I  hope  you  like  fancy-work — I  am 
very  fond  of  fancy-work — I  have  made  a  worsted  kitten." 
Joanna  could  feel  the  tears  soaking  through  her  veil,  run- 
ning down  her  cheeks — she  could  not  stop  them — and  the 
next  moment  she  heard  Bertie's  voice,  high  and  aggrieved — 
"What  are  you  crying  for,  Jo?" 

Directly  she  heard  it.  it  seemed  to  be  the  thing  she  had 
been  dreadinr^  most.  She  could  bear  no  more,  and  burst 
into  passionate  weeping. 


312  JOANNA    GODDEN 

They  all  gathered  round  her,  Agatha  with  the  new  tea- 
pot, Mrs.  Hill  with  her  worsted,  Bertie  patting  her  on  the 
back  and  asking  what  was  the  matter. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  sobbed — "I  expect  I'm  tired,  and  I 
ain't  used  to  travelling." 

"Yes,  I  expect  you  must  be  tired — have  a  fresh  cup  of 
tea,"  said  Agatha  kindly. 

"And  then  go  upstairs  and  have  a  good  lay  down,"  said 
Mrs.  Hill. 

Joanna  felt  vaguely  that  Albert  was  ashamed  of  her.  She 
was  certainly  ashamed  of  herself  and  of  this  entirely  new, 
surprising  conduct. 

§27 

By  supper  that  night  she  had  recovered,  and  remembered 
her  breakdown  rather  as  a  bad  dream,  but  neither  that 
evening  nor  the  next  day  could  she  quite  shake  off  the 
feeling  of  strangeness  and  depression.  She  had  never 
imagined  that  she  would  like  town  life,  but  she  had  thought 
that  the  unpleasantness  of  living  in  streets  would  be  lost  in 
the  companionship  of  the  man  she  loved — and  she  was  dis- 
appointed to  find  that  this  was  not  so.  Bertie,  indeed, 
rather  added  to  than  took  away  from  her  uneasiness.  He 
did  not  seem  to  fit  into  the  Hill  household  any  better  than 
she  did — in  fact,  none  of  the  members  fitted.  Bertie  and 
Agatha  clashed  openly,  and  Mrs.  Hill  was  lost.  The  house 
was  like  a  broken  machine,  full  of  disconnected  parts, 
which  rattled  and  fell  about,  Joanna  was  used  to  family 
quarrels,  but  she  was  not  used  to  family  disunion — more- 
over, though  she  would  have  allowed  much  between  brother 
and  sister,  she  had  certainly  very  definite  notions  as  to 
the  respect  due  to  a  mother.  Both  Bertie  and  Agatha  were 
continually  suppressing  and  finding  fault  with  Mrs.  Hill, 
and  of  the  two  Bertie  was  the  worse  offender,  Joanna 
could  not  excuse  him,  even  to  her  own  all-too-ready  heart. 
The  only  thing  she  could  say  was  that  it  was  most  likely 
!Mrs.  Hill's  own  fault — her  not  having  raised  him  properly. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  313 

Every  day  he  went  off  to  his  office  in  Fetter  Lane,  leaving 
Joanna  to  the  unrelieved  society  of  his  mother,  for  which 
he  apologised  profusely.  Indeed  she  found  her  days  a 
little  dreary,  for  the  old  lady  was  not  entertaining,  and  she 
dared  not  go  about  much  by  herself  in  so  metropolitan  a 
place  as  Lewisham.  Every  morning  she  and  her  future 
mother-in-law  went  out  shopping — that  is  to  say  they  bought 
half-pounds  and  quarter-pounds  of  various  commodities 
which  Joanna  at  Ansdore  would  have  laid  in  by  the  bushel 
and  hundredweight.  They  would  buy  tea  at  one  grocer's, 
and  then  walk  down  two  streets  to  buy  cocoa  from  another, 
because  he  sold  it  cheaper  than  the  shop  where  they  had 
bought  the  tea.  The  late  Mr.  Hill  had  left  his  widow  very 
badly  off — indeed  she  could  not  have  lived  at  all  except 
for  what  her  children  gave  her  out  of  their  salaries.  To 
her  dismay,  Joanna  discovered  that  while  Agatha,  in  spite 
of  silk  stockings  and  Merry  Widow  hats,  gave  her  mother 
a  pound  out  of  the  weekly  thirty  shillings  she  earned  as  a 
typist,  Albert  gave  her  only  ten  shillings  a  week — ^his  bare 
expenses. 

"He  says  he  doesn't  see  why  he  should  pay  more  for 
living  at  home  than  he'd  pay  in  digs — thcjugh,  as  a  matter 
of  fact  I  don't  know  anyone  who'd  take  him  for  as  little 
as  that,  even  for  only  bed  and  breakfast." 

"Rut  what  docs  he  do  with  the  rest  of  the  money?" 

"Oh,  he  has  a  lot  of  expenses,  my  dear — belongs  to  all 
sorts  of  grand  clubs,  and  goes  abroad  every  year  with  the 
Polytechnic,  or  even  Cook's.  Besides,  he  has  lady  friends 
that  he  takes  about — used  to,  1  should  say,  for  of  course 
he's  done  with  all  that  now — but  he  was  always  the  boy 
for  taking  ladies  out — and  never  would  demean  himself 
to  anything  less  than  a  Corner  House." 

"But  he  should  ought  to  treat  you  proper,  all  the  same," 
said  Joanna. 

.She  felt  sorry  and  angry,  and  also,  in  some  vague  way. 
that  it  was  her  j)art  to  set  matters  ri^ht — that  the  wotuid  in 
her  love  would  be  healed  if  she  could  act  where  Bertie  was 


314  JOANNA    GODDEN 

remiss.  But  Mrs,  Hill  would  not  let  her  open  her  fat  purse 
on  her  account — "No,  dear;  we  never  let  a  friend  oblige 
us."  Joanna,  who  was  not  tactful,  persisted,  and  the  old 
lady  became  very  frozen  and  genteel. 

Bertie's  hours  were  not  long  at  the  office.  He  was  gen- 
erally back  at  six,  and  took  Joanna  out — up  to  town,  where 
they  had  dinner  and  then  went  on  to  some  theatre  or  picture 
palace,  the  costs  of  the  expedition  being  defrayed  out  of 
her  own  pocket.  She  had  never  had  so  much  dissipation 
in  her  life — she  saw  "The  Merry  Widow,"  "A  Persian 
Princess"  and  all  the  musical  comedies.  Albert  did  not 
patronise  the  more  serious  drama,  and  for  Joanna  the 
British  stage  became  synonymous  with  flufify  heads  and 
whirling  legs  and  jokes  she  could  not  understand.  The 
late  hours  made  her  feel  very  tired,  and  on  their  way  home 
Albert  would  find  her  sleepy  and  unresponsive.  They 
always  went  by  taxi  from  Lewisham  station,  and  instead  of 
taking  their  passionate  opportunities  of  the  darkness,  she 
would  sink  her  heavy  head  against  his  breast,  holding  his 
arm  with  both  her  tired  hands.  "Let  me  be,  dear,  let  me 
be,"  she  would  murmur  when  he  tried  to  rouse  her — "this 
is  what  I  love  best." 

She  told  herself  that  it  was  because  she  was  so  tired  that 
she  often  felt  depressed  and  wakeful  at  nights.  Raymond 
Avenue  was  not  noisy,  indeed  it  was  nearly  as  quiet  as 
Ansdore,  but  on  some  nights  Joanna  lay  awake  from  Bertie's 
last  kiss  till  the  crashing  entrance  of  the  Girl  to  pull  up  her 
blinds  in  the  morning.  At  nights,  sometimes,  a  terrible 
clearness  came  to  her.  This  visit  to  her  lover's  house  was 
showing  her  more  of  his  character  than  she  had  learned 
in  all  the  rest  of  their  acquaintance.  She  could  not  bear 
to  realise  that  he  was  selfish  and  small-minded — though, 
now  she  came  to  think  of  it,  she  had  always  been  aware  of 
it  in  some  degree.  She  had  never  pretended  to  herself  that 
he  was  good  and  noble — she  had  loved  him  for  something 
quite  different — because  he  was  young  and  had  brought  her 
back  her  own  youth,  because  he  had  a  handsome  face  and 


JOANNA   GODDEN  315 

soft,  dark  eyes,  because  in  spite  of  all  his  cheek  and  know- 
ingness  he  had  in  her  sight  a  queer,  appealing  innocence.  .  .  . 
He  was  Hke  a  child,  even  if  it  was  a  spoilt,  selfish  child. 
When  she  held  his  dark  head  in  the  crook  of  her  arm,  he 
was  her  child,  her  little  boy.  .  .  .  And  perhaps  one  day 
she  would  hold,  through  her  love  for  him,  a  real  child 
there,  a  child  who  was  really  innocent  and  helpless  and 
weak — a  child  without  grossness  to  scare  her  or  hardness 
to  wound  her — her  own  child,  born  of  her  body. 

But  though  she  loved  him,  this  constant  expression  of 
his  worst  points  could  not  fail  to  give  her  a  feeling  of  chill. 
Was  this  the  way  he  would  behave  in  their  home  when 
they  were  married?  Would  he  speak  to  her  as  he  spoke 
to  his  mother?  Would  he  speak  to  their  children  so?  .  .  . 
She  could  not  bear  to  think  it,  and  yet  she  could  not  believe 
that  marriage  would  change  him  all  through.  What  if 
their  marriage  made  them  both  miserable? — made  them 
like  some  couples  she  had  known  on  the  marsh,  nagging 
and  hating  each  other.  Was  she  a  fool  to  think  of  marry- 
ing him? — all  that  difference  in  their  age  .  .  .  only  perfect 
love  could  make  up  for  it  .  .  .  and  he  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  living  in  the  country — he  was  set  on  his  business — 
his  "career,"  as  he  called  it.  .  .  .  She  did  not  think  he 
wanted  to  marry  her  as  much  as  she  wanted  to  marry 
him.  ,  .  .  Was  it  right  to  take  him  away  from  his  work, 
which  he  was  doing  so  well  at,  and  bring  him  to  live  down 
at  Ansdore  ? — My,  but  he  would  properly  scare  her  folk 
with  some  of  his  ways. 

However,  it  was  now  too  late  to  draw  back.  She  must 
go  on  with  what  she  had  begun.  At  all  costs  she  must 
marry — not  merely  because  she  loved  him,  but  because 
only  marriage  could  hallow  and  silence  the  j)asl.  With  all 
the  traditions  of  her  race  and  type  upon  her,  Joanna  could 
not  face  the  wild  harvest  of  love.  Her  wild  oats  must  be 
decently  gathered  into  the  barn,  even  if  they  gave  her  bitter 
bread  to  cat. 


316  JOANNA   GODDEN 

§28 

The  case  of  Godden  versus  Inland  Revenue  Commis- 
sioners was  heard  at  the  High  Court  when  Joanna  had  been 
at  Lewisham  about  ten  days.  Albert  tried  to  dissuade  her 
from  being  present. 

"I  can't  go  with  you,  and  I  don't  see  how  you  can  go 
alone." 

"I  shall  be  right  enough." 

"Yet  you  won't  even  go  down  the  High  Street  by  your- 
self— I  never  met  anyone  so  inconsistent." 

"It's  my  appeal,"  said  Joanna. 

"But  there's  no  need  for  you  to  attend.  Can't  you  trust 
anyone  to  do  anything  without  you  ?" 

"Not  Edward  Huxtable,"  said  Joanna  decidedly. 

"Then  why  did  you  choose  him  for  your  lawyer?" 

"He's  the  best  I  know." 

Bertie  opened  his  mouth  to  carry  the  argument  further, 
but  laughed  instead. 

"You  are  a  funny  ole  girl — so  silly  and  so  sensible,  so 
hard  and  so  soft,  such  hot  stuff  and  so  respectable.  .  .  ."  He 
kissed  her  at  each  item  of  the  catalogue— "I  can't  half 
make  you  out." 

However,  he  agreed  to  take  her  up  to  town  when  he  went 
himself,  and  deposited  her  at  the  entrance  of  the  Law 
Courts — a  solid,  impressive  figure  in  her  close-fitting  tan 
coat  and  skirt  and  high,  feathered  toque,  with  the  cere- 
monial veil  pulled  down  over  her  face. 

Beneath  her  imposing  exterior  she  felt  more  than  a  little 
scared  and  lost.  Godden  seemed  a  poor  thing  compared 
to  all  this  might  of  Inland  Revenue  Commissioners,  spread- 
ing about  her  in  passage  and  hall  and  tower.  .  .  .  The  law 
had  suddenly  become  formidable,  as  it  had  never  been 
in  Edward  Huxtable's  office.  .  .  .  However,  she  was  for- 
tunate in  finding  him,  with  the  help  of  one  or  two  police- 
men, and  the  sight  of  him  comforted  her  with  its  sug- 


JOANNA   GODDEN  317 

gestion  of  home  and  Watchbell  Street,  and  her  trap  wait- 
ing in  the  sunshine  outside  the  ancient  door  of  the  Huxtable 
dwelling. 

Her  Appeal  was  not  heard  till  the  afternoon,  and  in  the 
luncheon  interval  he  took  her  to  some  decorous  dining- 
rooms — such  as  Joanna  had  never  conceived  could  exist  in 
London,  so  reminiscent  were  they  of  the  George  and  the 
Ship  and  the  New  and  the  Crown  and  other  of  her  market- 
day  haunts.  They  ate  beef  and  cabbage  and  jam  roly  poly, 
and  discussed  the  chances  of  the  day.  Huxtable  said  he 
had  "a  pretty  case" — "a  very  pretty  case — you'll  be  sur- 
prised, Miss  Joanna,  to  see  what  I've  made  of  it." 

And  so  she  was.  Indeed,  if  she  hadn't  heard  the  opening 
she  would  never  have  known  it  was  her  case  at  all.  She 
listened  in   ever-increasing  bewilderment  and   dismay. 

In  spite  of  her  disapiwintment  in  the  matter  of  the  Com- 
missioners and  their  Referee,  she  had  always  looked  upon 
her  cause  as  one  so  glaringly  righteous  that  it  had  only  to 
be  pleaded  before  any  just  judge  to  be  at  once  established. 
But  now  .  .  .  the  horror  was,  that  it  was  no  longer  her 
cause  at  all.  This  was  not  Joanna  Goddcn  coming  boldly 
to  the  Law  of  England  to  obtain  redress  from  her  grievous 
oppression  by  pettifogging  clerks — it  was  just  a  miserable 
dispute  between  the  Commissioners  of  Inland  Revenue  and 
the  Lessor  of  Property  under  the  Act.  It  was  full  of  in- 
comprehensible jargon  about  Increment  Value,  Original  Site 
Value,  Assessable  Site  Value,  Land  Value  Duty,  Estate 
Duty,  Redemption  of  Land  Tax.  and  many  more  such  terms 
among  which  the  names  of  Donkey  Street  and  Little  Ansdore 
appeared  occasionally  and  almost  frivolously,  just  to  show 
Joanna  that  the  matter  was  her  concern.  In  his  efforts  to 
substantiate  an  almost  hopeless  case  Edward  Huxtable  had 
coiled  most  of  the  1910  Einance  Act  round  himself,  and 
the  day's  procecflings  consisted  of  the  same  being  uncoiled 
and  stripped  off  him.  exposing  his  utter  nakedness  in  the 
eyes  of  the  law.  When  the  last  remnant  of  protective  jar- 
gon had  been  torn  away,  Joanna  knew  that  her  Appeal  had 


318  JOANNA    GODDEN 

been  dismissed — and  she  would  have  to  pay  the  Duty  and 
also  the  expenses  of  the  action. 

The  only  comfort  that  remained  was  the  thought  of  what 
she  would  say  to  Edward  Huxtable  when  she  could  get 
hold  of  him.  They  had  a  brief,  eruptive  interview  in  the 
passage. 

"You  take  my  money  for  making  a  mess  like  that," 
stormed  Joanna — "I  tell  you,  you  shan't  have  it — ^you  can 
amuse  yourself  bringing  another  action  for  it." 

"Hush,  my  dear  lady — hush !  Don't  talk  so  loud.  I've 
done  my  best  for  you,  I  assure  you.  I  warned  you  not  to 
bring  the  action  in  the  first  instance,  but  when  I  saw  you 
were  determined  to  bring  it,  I  resolved  to  stand  by  you, 
and  get  you  through  if  possible.  I  briefed  excellent  coun- 
sel, and  really  made  out  a  very  pretty  little  case  for  you." 

"Ho!  Did  you? — And  never  once  mentioned  my  steam 
plough.  I  tell  you  when  I  heard  all  this  rubbish  your 
feller  spoke  I'd  have  given  the  case  against  him  myself. 
It  wasn't  my  Case  at  all.  My  Case  is  that  I'm  a  hard- 
working woman,  who's  made  herself  a  good  position  by 
being  a  bit  smarter  than  other  folk.  I  have  a  gentleman 
friend  who  cares  for  me  straight  and  solid  for  fifteen  years, 
and  when  he  dies  he  leaves  me  his  farm  and  everything 
he's  got.  I  sell  the  farm,  and  get  good  money  for  it,  which 
I  don't  spend  on  motor  cars  like  some  folk,  but  on  more 
improvements  on  my  own  farm.  I  make  my  property  more 
valuable,  and  I've  got  to  pay  for  it,  if  you  please.  Why, 
they  should  ought  to  pay  me.  What's  farming  coming  to, 
I'd  like  to  know,  if  we've  got  to  pay  for  bettering  our- 
selves? The  Government  ud  like  to  see  all  farmers  in  the 
workhouse — and  there  we'll  soon  be,  if  they  go  on  at  this 
rate.  And  it's  the  disrespectfulness  to  poor  Arthur  too — 
he  left  Donkey  Street  to  me — not  a  bit  to  me  and  the  rest 
to  them.  But  there  they  go,  wanting  to  take  most  of  it 
in  Death  Duty.  The  best  Death  Duty  I  know  is  to  do 
what  the  dead  ask  us  and  not  what  they'd  turn  in  their 
graves  if  they  knew  of.    And  poor  Arthur  who  did  every- 


JOANNA   GODDEN  319 

thing  in  the  world  for  me,  even  down  to  marrying  my  sister 
Ellen.  .  .  ." 

Edward  Huxtable  managed  to  escape. 

"Drat  that  woman,"  he  said  to  himself — "she's  a  terror. 
However,  I  suppose  I've  got  to  be  thankful  she  didn't 
try  to  get  any  of  that  off  her  chest  in  Court — she's  quite 
capable  of  it.  Damn  it  all !  She's  a  monstrosity — and 
going  to  be  married  too  .  .  .  well,  there  are  some  heroes 
left  in  the  world." 

§29 

Bertie  was  waiting  for  Joanna  outside  the  Law  Courts. 
In  the  stillness  of  the  August  evening  and  the  yellow  dusty 
sunshine,  he  looked  almost  contemplative,  standing  there 
with  bowed  head,  looking  down  at  his  hands  which  were 
folded  on  his  stick,  while  one  or  two  pigeons  strutted  about 
at  his  feet.  Joanna's  heart  melted  at  the  sight  of  him.  She 
went  up  to  him,  and  touched  his  arm. 

"Hullo,  ole  girl.     So  here  you  are.     How  did  it  go  off?" 

"I've  lost." 

"Damn !    That's  bad." 

She  saw  that  he  was  vexed,  and  a  sharp  touch  of  sorrow 
was  added  to  her  sense  of  outrage  and  disai)pnintment. 

"Yes,  it  was  given  against  me.  It's  all  that  Edward  IIux- 
table's  fault.  Would  you  believe  mc,  but  he  never  made 
out  a  proper  case  at  all  for  me,  but  just  a  lawyer's  mess, 
what  the  Judge  was  quite  right  not  to  hold  with." 

"Have  you  lost  much  money?" 

"A  proper  lot — but  I  shan't  let  Edward  Huxtable  get 
any  of  it.  If  he  wants  his  fees,  he'll  justabout  have  to 
bring  another  action." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Joanna — you'll  have  to  pay  the  costs  if 
they've  been  given  against  you.  You'll  only  land  yourself 
in  a  worse  hole  by  making  a  fuss." 

They  were  walking  westward  towards  the  theatres  and 
the  restaurants.  Joanna  felt  that  Bertie  was  angry  with 
her — he  was  angry  with  her  for  losing  her  case,  just  as 


320  JOANNA    GODDEN 

she  was  angry  with  Edward  Huxtable.  This  was  too 
much — the  tears  rose  in  her  eyes. 

"Will  this  do  you  much  damage?"  he  asked.  "In  pocket, 
I  mean." 

"Oh,  I — I'll  have  to  sell  out  an  investment  or  two,  but 
it  won't  do  any  real  hurt  to  Ansdore.  Howsumever,  I'll 
have  to  go  without  my  motor  car." 

"It  was  rather  silly  of  you  to  bring  the  action." 

"How,  silly?" 

"Well,  you  can't  have  had  much  of  a  case,  or  you  wouldn't 
have  lost  it  like  this  in  an  hour's  hearing." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense !  I'd  a  valiant  case,  if  only  that  fool 
Edward  Huxtable  hadn't  been  anxious  to  show  how  many 
hard  words  he  knew,  instead  of  just  telling  the  judge  about 
my  improvements  and  that." 

"Really,  Joanna,  you  might  give  up  talking  about  your 
improvements.  They've  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter  at 
all.  Can't  you  see  that,  as  the  Government  wanted  the 
money,  it's  nothing  to  them  if  you  spent  it  on  a  steam  plough 
or  on  a  new  hat?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you  might  just  as 
well  have  bought  your  motor  car — then  at  least  we'd  have 
that.     Now  you  say  you've  given  up  the  idea." 

"Unless  you  make  some  money  and  buy  it" — pain  made 
Joanna  snap. 

"Yes — that's  right,  start  twitting  me  because  it's  you 
who  have  the  money.  I  know  you  have,  and  you've  always 
known  I  haven't — I've  never  deceived  you.  I  suppose  you 
think  I'm  glad  to  be  coming  to  live  with  you,  to  give  up 
a  fine  commercial  career  for  your  sake.  I  tell  you,  any 
other  man  with  my  feelings  would  have  made  you  choose 
between  me  and  Ansdore — but  I  give  up  everything  for 
your  sake,  and  that's  how  you  pay  me — by  despising  me." 

"Oh,  don't,  Bertie,"  said  Joanna.  She  felt  that  she  could 
bear  no  more. 

They  had  come  into  Piccadilly,  and  the  light  was  still 
warm — it  was  not  yet  dinner-time,  but  Joanna,  who  had 
had  no  tea,  felt  suddenly  weak  and  faint. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  321 

"Let's  go  in  there,  dear,"  she  said,  as  they  reached  the 
Popular  Cafe — "and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  And  don't  let's 
quarrel,  for  I  can't  bear  it." 

He  looked  down  at  her  drawn  face  and  pity  smote  him. 

"Poor  ole  girl — aren't  you  feeling  well?" 

"Not  very — I'm  tired-like — sitting  listening  to  all  that 
rubbish." 

"Well,  let's  have  an  early  dinner,  and  then  go  to  a  music 
hall.    You've  never  been  to  one  yet,  have  you?" 

"No,"  said  Joanna.  She  would  much  rather  have  gone 
straight  home,  but  this  was  not  the  time  to  press  her  own 
wishes.  She  was  only  too  glad  to  have  Bertie  amicable  and 
smiling  again — she  realised  that  they  had  only  just  escaped 
a  serious  quarrel. 

The  dinner,  and  the  wine  that  accompanied  it,  made  her 
feel  better  and  more  cheerful.  She  talked  a  good  deal — 
even  too  much,  for  half  a  glass  of  claret  had  its  potent  ef- 
fect on  her  fatigue.  She  looked  flushed  and  untidy,  for  she 
had  spent  a  long  day  in  her  hat  and  outdoor  clothes,  and 
her  troubles  had  taken  her  thoughts  off  her  appearance — 
she  badly  needed  a  few  minutes  before  the  looking-glass. 
As  Albert  watched  her,  he  gave  up  his  idea  of  taking  her  to 
the  Palace,  which  he  told  himself  would  be  full  of  smart 
people,  and  decided  on  the  Alhambra  Music  Hall — then 
from  the  Alhambra  he  dropped  to  the  Holborn  Empire. 
.  .  .  Really  it  was  annoying  of  Jo  to  come  out  with  him 
looking  like  this — she  ought  to  realise  that  .she  was  not  a 
young  girl  who  could  afford  to  let  things  slip.  He  had  told 
her  several  times  that  her  hat  was  on  one  side.  .  .  .  And 
those  big  earrings  she  wore  .  .  .  she  ought  to  go  in  for 
something  quieter  at  her  age.  Her  get-up  had  always  been 
too  much  on  the  showy  side,  and  she  was  too  indejiendcnt 
of  those  helps  to  nature  which  much  younger  and  better- 
looking  women  than  herself  were  only  too  glad  to  use.  .  .  . 
He  liked  to  see  a  woman  take  out  a  powder-puff  and  flick 
it  over  her  face  in  little  dainty  sweeps.  .  .  . 

These  reflections  did  not  put  him  in  a  good  humour  for 


322  JOANNA    GODDEN 

the  evening's  entertainment.  They  went  by  'bus  to  the  Hol- 
born  Empire  where  the  first  house  had  already  started. 
Joanna  felt  a  little  repulsed  by  the  big,  rowdy  audience, 
smoking  and  eating  oranges  and  joining  in  the  choruses  of 
the  songs.  Her  brief  experience  of  the  dress  circle  at  Daly's 
or  the  Queen's  had  not  prepared  her  for  anything  so  charac- 
teristic as  an  English  music-hall,  with  its  half-participating 
audience — "Hurrah  for  Daise !"  as  Daisy  Dormer  took  the 
boards  to  sing,  with  her  shoulders  hunched  up  to  the  brim 
of  her  enormous  hat,  a  heartrending  song  about  her  mother. 

Joanna  watched  Bertie  as  he  lounged  beside  her.  She 
knew  that  he  was  sulking — the  mere  fact  that  he  was  enter- 
taining her  cheaply,  by  'bus  and  music-hall  instead  of  taxi 
and  theatre,  pointed  to  his  displeasure.  She  wondered  if 
he  was  enjoying  this  queer  show,  which  struck  her  alter- 
nately as  inexpressibly  beautiful  and  inexpressibly  vulgar. 
The  lovely  ladies  like  big  handsome  barmaids  who  sang 
serious  songs  in  evening  dress  and  diamonds,  apparently  in 
the  vicinity  of  Clapham  High  Street  or  the  Monument,  were 
merely  incomprehensible.  She  could  not  understand  what 
they  were  doing.  The  comedians  she  found  amusing,  when 
they  did  not  shock  her — Bertie  had  explained  to  her  one  or 
two  of  the  jokes  she  could  not  understand.  The  "song- 
scenas"  and  acrobatic  displays  filled  her  with  rapture.  She 
would  have  liked  that  sort  of  thing  the  whole  time.  .  .  . 
Albert  said  it  was  a  dull  show,  he  grumbled  at  everything, 
especially  the  turns  Joanna  liked.  But  gradually  the  warm, 
friendly,  vulgar  atmosphere  of  the  place  infected  him — he 
joined  in  one  or  two  of  the  choruses,  and  seemed  almost  to 
forget  about  Joanna. 

She  watched  him  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  singing — 

"Take  me  back  to  Pompeii — 
To  Pompey-ompey-i — " 

In  the  dim  red  light  of  the  place,  he  looked  incredibly 
young.  She  could  see  only  his  profile — the  backward  sweep 
of  glistening,  pomaded  hair,  the  little  short  straight  nose, 


JOANNA    GODDEN  323 

the  sensual,  fretful  lips — and  as  she  watched  him  she  was 
smitten  with  a  queer  sense  of  pity.  This  was  no  strong 
man,  no  lover  and  husband — just  a  little  clerk  she  was  going 
to  shut  up  in  prison — a  little  singing  clerk.  She  felt  a  brute 
— she  put  out  her  hand  and  slid  it  under  his  arm,  against 
his  warm  side. 

"To  Pompey-ompey-I — " 

sang  Bert. 

§  30 

The  curtain  came  down  and  the  lights  went  up  for  the 
Interval.  A  brass  band  played  very  loud.  Joanna  was  be- 
ginning to  have  a  bit  of  a  headache,  but  she  said  nothing — 
she  did  not  want  him  to  leave  on  her  account — or  to  find 
that  he  did  not  think  of  leaving.  .  .  ,  She  felt  very  hot,  and 
fanned  herself  with  her  programme.  Most  of  the  audience 
were  hot. 

"Joanna,"  said  Bert,  "don't  you  ever  use  powder?" 

"Powder  !    What  d'you  mean  ?" 

"Face-powder — what  most  girls  use.  Your  skin  wouldn't 
get  rcfl  and  shiny  like  that  if  you  had  some  powder  on  it." 

"I'd  never  dream  of  using  such  a  thing.    I'd  be  ashamed." 

"Why  be  ashamed  of  looking  decent  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  look  decent — I'd  look  like  a  hussy.  Some- 
times when  I  see  these  gals'  faces  I — " 

"Kcally,  Jo,  to  hear  you  speak  one  xul  think  you  were  the 
only  virtuous  woman  left  in  England.  But  there  are  just 
one  or  two  things  in  your  career,  my  child,  which  don't 
quite  bear  out  that  notion." 

Joanna's  heart  gave  a  sudden  bourwl,  then  seemed  to 
freeze. 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  cliair,  staring  at  the  advertise- 
ments on  the  curtain.  I'crtie  j)ut  his  arm  round  her — "I 
say,  ole  girl,  you  ain't  angry  with  mc,  are  you?"  She  made 
no  reply — she  could  not  speak ;  too  much  was  happening  in 
her  thoughts — had  happened,  rather,  for  her  mind  was  now 


324  JOANNA    GODDEN 

quite  made  up.  A  vast,  half-conscious  process  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  settled  itself,  leaving  her  quite  clear-headed 
and  calm. 

"You  ain't  angry  with  me,  are  you?"  repeated  Bert. 
"No — "  said  Joanna — "I'm  not  angry  with  you." 
He  had  been  cruel  and  selfish  when  she  was  in  trouble, 
he  had  shown  no  tenderness  for  her  physical  fatigue,  and 
now  at  last  he  had  taunted  her  with  the  loss  of  her  honour 
for  his  sake.  But  she  was  not  angry  with  him.  ...  It  was 
only  that  now  she  knew  she  could  never,  never  marry  him. 

§31 

That  night  she  slept  heavily — the  deep  sleep  of  physical 
exhaustion  and  mental  decision.  The  unconscious  striving 
of  her  soul  no  longer  woke  her  to  ask  her  hard  questions. 
Her  mind  was  made  up,  and  her  conflict  was  at  an  end. 

She  woke  at  the  full  day,  when  down  on  Walland  Marsh 
all  the  world  was  awake,  but  here  the  city  and  the  house 
still  slept,  and  rose  with  her  eyes  and  heart  full  of  tragic 
purpose.  She  dressed  quickly,  then  packed  her  box — all  the 
gay,  grand  things  she  had  brought  to  make  her  lover  proud 
of  her.  Then  she  sat  down  at  her  dressing-table,  and 
wrote — 

"Dear  Bertie: 

"When  you  get  this  I  shall  have  gone  for  good.  I  see 
now  that  we  were  not  meant  for  each  other.  I  am  very 
sorry  if  this  gives  you  pain.    But  it  is  all  for  the  best. 

"Your  sincere  friend, 

"Joanna  Godden." 

By  this  time  it  was  half -past  seven  by  the  good  gold  watch 
which  poor  Father  had  left  her.  Joanna's  plan  was  to  go 
downstairs,  put  her  letter  on  the  hall  table,  and  bribe  the 
girl  to  help  her  down  with  her  box  and  call  a  cab.  before 
any  of  the  others  appeared.     She  did  not  want  to  have  to 


JOANNA   GODDEN  325 

face  Albert,  with  inevitable  argument  and  possible  re- 
proaches. Her  bruised  heart  ached  too  much  to  be  able  to 
endure  any  more  from  him — angry  and  wounded,  it  beat 
her  side. 

She  carried  out  her  scheme  quite  successfully  as  far  as 
the  cab  itself,  and  then  was  betrayed.  Poor  Father's  watch, 
that  huge  emblem  of  worth  and  respectability,  hanging  with 
its  gold  chain  and  seals  upon  her  breast,  had  a  rare  but  em- 
barrassing habit  of  stopping  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  as  if  to 
rest  its  ancient  works.  This  is  what  it  had  done  today — 
instead  of  half-past  seven,  the  time  was  eight,  and  as  the 
girl  and  the  cabman  carried  Joanna's  box  out  of  the  door, 
Bertie  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  steep  little  stairs. 

"Hullo,  Joanna!"  he  called  out  in  surprise — "Where  on 
earth  are  you  going?" 

Here  was  trouble.  For  a  moment  Joanna  quailed,  but 
she  recovered  herself  and  answered — 

"I'm  going  home." 

"Home! — What  d'you  mean? — Whatever  for?" 

The  box  was  on  the  taxi,  and  the  driver  stood  holding 
the  door  open. 

"I  made  up  my  mind  last  night.  I  can't  stay  here  any 
longer.  Thank  you,  Alice,  you  needn't  wait."  She  put  a 
sovereign  into  the  girl's  hand. 

"Come  into  the  dining-room,"  said  Albert. 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  and  they  both  went  in. 

"It's  no  good,  Bertie — I  can't  stand  it  any  longer,"  said 
Joanna,  "it's  as  plain  as  a  pike  as  you  and  me  were  never 
meant  to  marry,  anrl  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  say  goodbye 
before  it's  too  late." 

He  stared  at  her  in  silence. 

"I  made  up  my  mind  last  night,"  she  continued,  "but  I 
wouldn't  say  anything  about  it  till  this  morning,  and  then  I 
thought  I'd  slip  off  rjuict.  I've  left  a  letter  to  you  that  I 
wrote." 

"But  why — why  are  you  going?" 

"Well,  it's  pretty  plain,  ain't  it,  that  we  haven't  been  get- 


326  JOANNA    GODDEN 

ting  along  so  well  as  we  should  ought  since  I  came  here. 
You  and  me  were  never  meant  for  each  other — we  don't  fit 
— and  the  last  few  days  it's  been  all  trouble — and  there's 
been  things  I  could  hardly  bear.  ,  .  ." 

Her  voice  broke. 

"I'm  sorry  I've  offended  you" — he  spoke  stiffly — "but 
since  you  came  here  it's  struck  me,  too,  that  things  were 
different.  I  must  say,  Joanna,  you  don't  seem  to  have  con- 
sidered the  difficulties  of  my  position." 

"I  have — and  that's  one  reason  why  I'm  going.  I  don't 
want  to  take  you  away  from  your  business  and  your  career, 
as  you  say;  I  know  you  don't  want  to  come  and  live  at 
Ansdore.  .  .  ." 

"If  you  really  loved  me,  and  still  felt  like  that  about  my 
prospects,  you'd  rather  give  up  Ansdore  than  turn  me  down 
as  you're  doing." 

"I  do  love  you" — she  said  doggedly,  "but  I  couldn't  give 
up  my  farm  for  you  and  come  and  live  with  you  in  London 
— because  if  I  did,  reckon  I  shouldn't  love  you  much  longer. 
These  last  ten  days  have  shown  me  more  than  anything 
before  that  you'd  make  anyone  you  lived  with  miserable, 
and  if  I  hadn't  my  farm  to  take  my  thoughts  oflf  I'd  just- 
about  die  of  shame  and  sorrow." 

He  flushed  angrily. 

"Really,  Joanna — what  do  you  mean?  I've  given  you  as 
good  a  time  as  I  knew  how." 

"Most  likely.  But  all  the  while  you  were  giving  me  that 
good  time  you  were  showing  me  how  little  you  cared  for 
me.  Oh,  it  isn't  as  if  I  hadn't  been  in  love  before  and  seen 
how  good  a  man  can  be.  ...  I  don't  want  to  say  hard 
things  to  you,  my  dear,  but  there's  been  times  when  you've 
hurt  me  as  no  man  could  hurt  a  woman  he  really  loved. 
And  I've  lived  in  your  home  and  seen  how  you  treat  your 
poor  mother,  and  your  sister — and  I  tell  you  the  truth, 
though  it  hurts  me — you  ain't  man  enough  for  me." 

"Well,  if  that's  how  you  feel  about  me,  we  had  certainly 
better  not  go  on." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  327 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  dear.  Reckon  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take from  the  start — I'm  too  old  for  you." 

"Then  it's  a  pity  we  went  as  far  as  this.  What'll  Mother 
and  Agatha  think  when  they  hear  you've  turned  me  down? 
They're  cats  enough  to  imagine  all  sorts  of  things.  Why 
do  you  dash  ofi'  like  this  as  if  I  was  the  plague?  If  you 
must  break  off  our  engagement,  you  must,  though  I  don't 
want  you  to — I  love  you,  even  though  you  don't  love  me — 
but  you  might  at  least  do  it  decently.  Think  of  what  they'll 
say  when  they  come  down  and  find  you've  bolted." 

"I'm  sorry,  Bertie.  But  I  couldn't  bear  to  stick  on  here 
another  hour.  You  may  tell  them  any  story  about  me  you 
like.  But  I  can't  stay.  I  must  think  of  myself  a  bit,  since 
I've  no  one  else  to  do  it  for  me." 

His  face  was  like  a  sulky  child's.  He  looked  at  the  floor, 
and  kicked  the  wainscot. 

"Well,  I  think  you're  treating  me  very  badly,  Joanna. 
Hang  it  all,  I  love  you — and  I  think  you're  a  damn  fine 
woman — I  really  do — and  I  don't  care  if  you  are  a  bit  older 
— I  don't  like  girls." 

"You  won't  think  me  fine  in  another  ten  years — and  as 
for  loving  me,  don't  talk  nonsense ;  you  don't  love  me,  or  I 
shouldn't  be  going.    Now  let  me  go." 

Her  voice  was  hard,  because  her  self-control  was  failing 
her.  She  tore  open  the  door,  and  jnishcd  him  violently 
aside  when  he  tried  to  stand  in  her  way. 

"Let  me  go — I'm  shut  of  you.  I  tell  you,  you  ain't  man 
enough  for  me." 

5  32 

She  had  told  tlic  cabman  to  drive  to  Charing  Cross  Sta- 
tion, as  she  felt  unequal  to  the  complications  of  travelling 
from  Lewisham.  It  was  a  long  drive,  and  all  the  way 
Joanna  sat  and  cried.  She  seemed  to  have  cried  a  great 
deal  lately — her  nature  had  melted  in  a  strange  way,  and 
the  tears  she  had  so  seldom  shed  as  a  girl  wore  now  con- 
tinually ready  to  fall — but  she  had  never  cried  as  much  as 


328  JOANNA    GODDEN 

she  cried  this  morning.  By  the  time  she  reached  Charing 
Cross  she  was  in  desperate  need  of  that  powder-puff  Bertie 
had  urged  her  to  possess. 

So  this  was  the  end — the  end  of  the  great  romance  which 
should  have  given  her  girlhood  back  to  her,  but  which  in- 
stead seemed  to  have  shut  her  into  a  lonely  and  regretful 
middle-age.  All  her  shining  pride  in  herself  was  gone — she 
saw  herself  as  one  who  has  irrevocably  lost  all  that  makes 
life  worth  living  .  .  .  pride  and  love.  She  knew  that  Bertie 
did  not  love  her — in  his  heart  he  was  glad  that  she  was 
going — all  he  was  sorry  for  was  the  manner  of  it,  which 
might  bring  him  disgrace.  But  he  would  soon  get  over 
that,  and  then  he  would  be  thankful  he  was  free,  and 
eventually  he  would  marry  some  younger  woman  than  her- 
self .  .  .  and  she?  Yes,  she  still  loved  him — but  it  would 
not  be  for  long.  She  could  feel  her  love  for  him  slowly 
dying  in  her  heart.  It  was  scarcely  more  than  pity  now— 
pity  for  the  little  singing  clerk  whom  she  had  caught  and 
would  have  put  in  a  cage  if  he  had  not  fluttered  so  terribly 
in  her  hands. 

When  she  arrived  at  Charing  Cross  a  feeling  of  desola- 
tion was  upon  her.  A  porter  came  to  fetch  her  box,  but 
Joanna — the  great  Joanna  Godden  who  put  terror  into  the 
markets  of  three  towns — shrank  back  into  the  taxi,  loath  to 
leave  its  comfortable  shelter  for  the  effort  and  racket  of  the 
station.  A  dark,  handsome,  rather  elderly  man,  was  coming 
out  of  one  of  the  archways.  Their  eyes  met  and  he  at  once 
turned  his  away,  but  Joanna  leapt  for  him — 

"Sir  Harry!    Sir  Harry  Trevor!    Don't  you  know  me?" 

— Only  too  well,  but  he  had  not  exactly  expected  her  to 
claim  acquaintance.  He  felt  bewildered  when  Joanna 
pushed  her  way  to  him  through  the  crowd  and  wrung  his 
hand  as  if  he  was  her  only  friend. 

"Oh,  Sir  Harry,  reckon  I'm  glad  to  see  you !" 

"I— I—"  stuttered  the  baronet. 

He  looked  rather  flushed  and  sodden,  and  the  dyeing  of 
his  hair  was  more  obvious  than  it  had  been. 


JOANNA    GODDEN  329 

"Fancy  meeting  you !"  gasped  Joanna. 

"Er — how  are  you,  Miss  Godden?" 

"Do  you  know  when  there's  a  train  to  Rye?" 

"I'm  sorry,  I  don't.  I've  just  been  saying  goodbye  to  my 
son  Lawrence — he's  off  to  Africa  or  somewhere,  but  I 
couldn't  wait  till  his  train  came  in.  I've  got  to  go  over  to 
St.  Pancras  and  catch  the  10.50  for  the  North." 

"Lawrence  1" 

Thank  goodness,  that  had  put  her  on  another  scent — now 
she  would  let  him  go. 

"Yes — he's  in  the  station.    You'll  see  him  if  you're  quick." 

Joanna  turned  away,  and  he  saw  that  the  tears  were  nm- 
ning  down  her  face.  The  woman  had  been  drinking — that 
accounted  for  it  all  .  .  .  well,  he  wished  Lawrence  joy  of 
her.  It  would  do  him  good  to  have  a  drunken  woman  fall- 
ing on  his  neck  on  a  public  platform. 

The  porter  said  there  would  not  be  a  train  for  Rye  for 
another  hour.  He  suggested  that  Joanna  should  put  her 
luggage  in  the  cloak-room  and  go  and  get  herself  a  cup  of 
tea — the  porter  knew  the  difference  between  a  drunken 
woman  and  one  who  is  merely  faint  from  trouble  and  want 
of  her  breakfast.  But  Joanna's  mind  was  obsessed  by  the 
thought  of  Lawrence — her  brother-in-law  as  she  still  called 
him  in  her  heart — she  wanted  to  see  him — she  remembered 
his  kindness  long  ago  .  .  .  and  in  her  sorrow  she  was  going 
back  to  the  sorrow  of  those  days  .  .  .  somehow  she  felt  as 
if  Martin  had  just  died,  as  if  she  had  just  come  out  of 
North  Farthing  1  louse,  alone,  as  she  had  come  then — and 
now  Lawrence  was  here,  as  he  had  been  then,  to  kiss  her  and 
say  "Dear  Jo".  .  .  . 

"What  platform  does  the  train  for  Africa  start  from?" 
she  asked  the  porter. 

"Well,  lady,  T  can't  rightly  say.  The  only  boat-train  from 
here  this  morning  gors  to  Folkestone,  and  that's  off — hut 
most  likely  the  gentleman  ud  be  going  from  Waterloo,  and 
the  trains  for  Waterloo  start  from  number  seven." 

The  porter  took  her  to  number  seven,  and  at  the  barrier 


330  JOANNA    GODDEN 

she  caught  sight  of  a  familiar  figure  sitting  on  a  bench. 
Father  Lawrence's  bullet  head  showed  above  the  folds  of 
his  cloak ;  by  his  side  was  a  big  shapeless  bundle  and  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  station  roof.  He  started  violently 
when  a  large  woman  suddenly  sat  down  beside  him  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"Lawrence  !"  sobbed  Joanna — "Lawrence  1" 

"Joanna  1" 

He  was  too  startled  to  say  anything  more,  but  the  mo- 
ment did  not  admit  of  much  conversation.  Joanna  sat 
beside  him,  bent  over  her  knees,  her  big  shoulders  shaking 
with  sobs  which  were  not  always  silent.  Lawrence  made 
himself  as  large  as  he  could,  but  he  could  not  hide  her  from 
the  public  stare,  for  nature  had  not  made  her  inconspicuous, 
and  her  taste  in  clothes  would  have  defeated  nature  if  it 
had.  Her  orange  toque  had  fallen  sideways  on  her  tawny 
hair — she  was  like  a  big,  broken  sunflower. 

"My  dear  Jo,"  he  said  gently,  after  a  time — "let  me  go 
and  get  you  a  drink  of  water." 

"No — don't  leave  me." 

"Then  let  me  ask  someone  to  go." 

"No— no.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  all  right— it's  only  that  I  felt  so 
glad  at  seeing  you  again." 

Lawrence  was  surprised. 

"It  makes  me  think  of  that  other  time  when  you  were 
kind — I  remember  when  Martin  died  .  .  .  oh,  I  can't  help 
wishing  sometimes  he  was  dead — that  he'd  died  right  at  the 
start — or  I  had." 

"My  dear.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  when  Martin  died,  at  least  it  was  finished ;  but  this 
time  it  ain't  finished — it's  like  something  broken."  She 
clasped  her  hands,  in  their  brown  kid  gloves,  against  her 
heart. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  what's  happened?  This  isn't  Martin 
you're  talking  about?" 

"No.  But  I  thought  he  was  like  Martin — that's  what 
made  me  take  to  him  at  the  start.     I  looked  up  and  I  saw 


JOANNA    GODDEN  331 

him,  and  I  said  to  myself  'that's  Martin' — it  gave  me  quite 
a  jump." 

The  Waterloo  train  was  in  the  station  and  the  people  on 
the  platform  surged  towards  it,  leaving  Lawrence  and 
Joanna  stranded  on  their  seat.  Lawrence  looked  at  the 
train  for  a  minute,  then  shook  his  head,  as  if  in  answer  to 
some  question  he  had  asked  himself. 

"Look  here,  Jo,"  he  said,  "won't  you  tell  me  what's  hap- 
pened ?  I  can't  quite  understand  you  as  it  is.  Don't  tell  me 
anything  you'd  rather  not." 

Joanna  sat  upright  and  swallowed  violently. 

"It's  like  this,"  she  said.  "I've  just  broken  off  my  engage- 
ment to  marry — maybe  you  didn't  know  I  was  engaged  to 
be  married?" 

"No,  I  didn't." 

"Well,  I  was.  I  was  engaged  to  a  young  chap — a  young 
chap  in  an  office.  I  met  him  at  Marlingate,  when  I  was 
staying  there  that  time.  I  thought  he  was  like  Martin — 
that's  what  made  me  take  to  him  at  the  first.  But  he  wasn't 
like  Martin — not  really  in  his  looks  and  never  in  his  ways. 
And  at  last  it  got  morc'n  I  could  bear,  and  I  broke  with  him 
this  morning  and  came  away — and  I  reckon  he  ain't  sorry, 
neither.  .  .  .  I'm  thirteen  year  older  than  him." 

Her  tears  began  to  flow  again,  but  the  platform  was  tem- 
porarily deserted.  Lawrence  waited  for  her  to  go  on — he 
suspected  a  tragedy  which  had  not  yet  been  revealed. 

"Oh,  my  heart's  broke,"  she  continued — "reckon  I'm  done 
for,  and  there's  nothing  left  for  me." 

"But,  Jo — is  this — this  affair  quite  finished?  Perhaps. 
...   I  mean  to  say,  quarrels  can  be  made  up,  you  know." 

"Not  this  one,"  said  Joanna.  "It's  been  too  much.  For 
days  I've  watched  him  getting  tired  of  mc,  and  last  night  he 
turned  on  me  because  for  his  sake  I'd  done  what  no  woman 
should  do." 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  her  mouth  than  she  was 
dismayed.  She  had  not  meant  to  say  them.  Would  Law- 
rence understand  ?    What  would  he  think  of  her? — a  clergy- 


332  JOANNA    GODDEN  J 

man.  .  .  .  She  turned  on  him  a  face  crimson  and  suffused 
with  tears,  to  meet  a  gaze  as  serene  as  ever.  Then  sud- 
denly a  new  feeling  came  to  her — something  apart  from 
horror  at  herself  and  shame  at  his  knowing,  and  yet  linked 
strangely  with  them  both — something  which  was  tenderer 
than  any  shame  and  yet  more  ruthless.  .  .  .  Her  last  guard 
broke  down. 

"Lawrence — I've  been  wicked,  I've  been  bad — I'm  sorry 
— Lawrence.  .  .  ." 

"Tell  me  as  little  or  as  much  as  you  like,  dear  Jo." 

Joanna  gripped  his  arm;  she  had  driven  him  into  the 
corner  of  the  seat,  where  he  sat  with  his  bundle  on  his  lap, 
his  ear  bent  to  her  mouth,  while  she  crowded  up  against 
him,  pouring  out  her  tale.  Every  now  and  then  he  said 
gently — "Sh-sh-sh" — when  he  thought  that  her  confession 
was  penetrating  the  further  recesses  of  Charing  Cross.  .  .  . 
/"Oh,  Lawrence,  I  feel  so  bad — I  feel  so  wicked — I  never 
should  have  thought  it  of  myself.  I  didn't  feel  wicked  at 
first,  but  I  did  afterwards.  Oh,  Lawrence,  tell  me  what 
I'm  to  do." 

His  professional  instinct  taught  him  to  treat  the  situation 
with  simplicity,  but  he  guessed  that  Joanna  would  not  ap- 
preciate the  quiet  dealings  of  the  confessional.  He  had 
always  liked  Joanna,  always  admired  her,  and  he  liked  and 
admired  her  no  less  now,  but  he  really  knew  very  little  of 
her — her  life  had  crossed  his  only  on  three  different,  brief 
occasions :  when  she  was  engaged  to  his  brother,  when  she 
was  anxious  to  appoint  a  Rector  to  the  living  in  her  gift, 
and  now  when  as  a  broken-hearted  woman  she  relieved 
herself  of  a  burden  of  sorrow. 

"Lawrence — tell  me  what  to  do." 

"Dear  Jo — I'm  not  quite  sure.  ...  I  don't  know  what 
you  want,  you  see.  What  I  should  want  first  myself  would 
be  absolution." 

"Oh.  don't  you  try  none  of  your  Jesoot  tricks  on  me — I 
couldn't  bear  it." 

"Very  well.    Then  I  think  there's  only  one  thing  you  can 


JOANNA   GODDEN  333 

do,  and  that  is  to  go  home  and  take  up  your  life  where  you 
left  it,  with  a  very  humble  heart.  'I  shall  go  softly  all  my 
days  in  the  bitterness  of  my  soul.'  " 

Joanna  gulped. 

"And  be  very  thankful,  too." 

"What  for?" 

"For  your  repentance." 

"Well,  reckon  I  do  feel  sorry — and  reckon  too  I  done 
something  to  be  sorry  for.  .  .  .  Oh,  Lawrence,  what  a 
wicked  owl  I've  been !  If  you'd  told  me  six  year  ago  as  I'd 
ever  come  to  this  I'd  have  had  a  fit  on  the  ground." 

Lawrence  looked  round  him  nervously.  W^hatever  Jo- 
anna's objections  to  private  penance,  she  was  curiously 
indifferent  to  confessing  her  sins  to  all  mankind  in  Charing 
Cross  Station.  The  platform  was  becoming  crowded  again, 
and  already  their  confessional  had  been  invaded — a  woman 
with  a  baby  was  sitting  on  the  end  of  it. 

"Your  train  will  be  starting  soon,"  said  Lawrence — "let's 
go  and  find  you  something  to  eat." 


§  33 

Joanna  felt  better  after  she  had  had  a  good  cup  of  coflfee 
and  a  poached  egg.  .She  was  surprised  afterwards  to  find 
she  had  eaten  so  much.  Lawrence  sat  with  her  while  she 
ate,  then  took  her  to  find  her  porter,  her  luggage  and  her 
train. 

"But  won't  you  lose  your  train  to  Africa?"  asked  Joanna. 

"I'm  only  going  as  far  as  Waterloo  this  morning,  and 
there's  a  train  every  ten  minutes." 

"When  do  you  start  for  Africa?" 

"I  think  tonight." 

"I  wish  you  weren't  going  there.     Why  are  you  going?" 

"Because  I'm  sent." 

"When  will  you  come  back  ?" 

"I  don't  know — perhaps  never." 


334  JOANNA   GODDEN 

"I'm  middling  sorry  you're  going.  What  a  place  to  send 
you  to  ! — all  among  niggers." 

She  was  getting  more  like  herself.  He  stood  at  the  car- 
riage door,  talking  to  her  of  indifferent  things  till  the  train 
started.  The  whistle  blew,  and  the  train  began  to  glide  out 
of  the  station.  Joanna  waved  her  hand  to  the  grey  figure, 
standing  on  the  platform  beside  the  tramp's  bundle  which 
was  all  that  would  go  with  it  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  She 
did  not  know  whether  she  pitied  Lawrence  or  envied  him. 

"Reckon  he's  got  some  queer  notions,"  she  said  to  herself. 

She  leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  feeling  more  at  ease  than 
she  had  felt  for  weeks.  She  was  travelling  third  class,  for 
one  of  Lawrence's  notions  was  that  everybody  did  so,  and 
when  Joanna  had  given  him  her  purse  to  buy  her  ticket  it 
had  never  struck  him  that  she  did  not  consider  third-class 
travel  "seemly"  in  one  of  her  sex  and  position.  However, 
the  carriage  was  comfortable,  and  occupied  only  by  two 
well-conducted  females.  Yes — she  was  certainly  feeling 
better.  She  would  never  have  thought  that  merely  telling 
her  story  to  Lawrence  would  have  made  such  a  difference. 
But  a  great  burden  had  been  lifted  off  her  heart.  .  .  ,  He 
was  a  good  chap,  Lawrence,  for  all  his  queer  ways — such 
as  ud  make  you  think  he  wasn't  gentry  if  you  didn't  know 
who  his  father  was  and  his  brother  had  been — and  no  no- 
tion how  to  behave  himself  as  a  clergyman,  neither — any- 
way she  hoped  he'd  get  safe  to  Africa  and  that  the  nig- 
gers wouldn't  eat  him  .  .  .  though  she'd  heard  of  such 
things.  .  .  . 

She'd  do  as  he  said,  too.  She'd  go  home  and  take  up 
things  where  she'd  put  them  down.  It  would  be  hard — much 
harder  than  he  thought.  Perhaps  he  didn't  grasp  all  that 
she  was  doing  in  giving  up  marriage,  the  one  thing  that 
could  ever  make  her  respect  herself  again.  Well,  she 
couldn't  help  that — she  must  just  do  without  respecting 
herself — that's  all.  Anything  would  be  better  than  shutting 
up  herself  and  Albert  together  in  prison,  till  they  hated  each 
-other.    It  would  be  very  hard  for  her,  who  had  always  been 


JOANNA    GODDEN  335 

so  proud  of  herself,  to  live  without  even  respecting  herself 
— But  she  should  have  thought  of  that  earlier.  She  remem- 
bered Lawrence's  words — "I  will  go  softly  all  my  days  in 
the  bitterness  of  my  soul.  .  .  ."  Well,  she'd  do  her  best, 
and  perhaps  God  would  forgive  her,  and  then  when  she  died 
she'd  go  to  heaven,  and  be  with  Martin  for  ever  and  ever, 
in  spite  of  all  the  bad  things  she'd  done.  .  .  , 

She  got  out  to  Appledore  and  took  the  light  railway  to 
Brodnyx.  She  did  not  feel  inclined  for  the  walk  from  Rye. 
The  little  train  was  nearly  empty,  and  Joanna  had  a  car- 
riage to  herself.  She  settled  herself  comfortably  in  a  corner 
— it  was  good  to  be  coming  home,  even  as  things  were.  The 
day  was  very  sunny  and  still.  The  blue  sky  was  slightly 
misted — a  yellow  haze  which  smelt  of  chaff  and  corn 
smudged  together  the  sky  and  the  marsh  and  the  distant  sea. 
The  farms  with  their  red  and  yellow  roofs  were  like  rii>e 
apples  lying  in  the  grass. 

Yes,  the  marsh  was  the  best  place  to  live  on,  and  the 
marsh  ways  were  the  best  ways,  and  the  man  who  had 
loved  her  on  the  marsh  was  the  best  man  and  the  best  lover. 
.  .  .  She  wondered  what  Ellen  would  say  when  she  heard 
she  had  broken  off  her  engagement.  Ellen  had  never 
thought  much  of  Bertie— she  had  thought  Joanna  was  a  fool 
to  see  such  a  lot  in  him ;  and  Ellen  had  been  right — her  eyes 
and  her  head  were  clearer  than  her  poor  sister's.  .  .  .  She 
expected  she  would  be  home  in  time  for  tea — Ellen  would 
be  terribly  surprised  to  see  her;  if  she'd  had  any  sense  she'd 
have  sent  her  a  telegram. 

The  little  train  had  a  strange  air  of  friendliness  as  it 
jogged  across  Komncy  Marsh.  It  ran  familiarly  through 
farmyards  and  back  gardens,  it  meekly  let  the  motor  cars 
race  it  and  pass  it  as  it  clanked  beside  the  roads.  The  line 
was  single  all  the  way,  except  for  a  mile  outside  Brodnyx 
station,  where  it  made  a  loop  to  let  the  up-train  pass.  The 
up-train  was  late — they  had  been  too  long  loarling  up  the 
fish  at  Dunge  Ness,  or  there  was  a  reaping  machine  being 
brought    from   Lydd.      For   some   minutes   Joanna's   train. 


336  JOANNA    GODDEN 

stayed  halted  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  three 
marshes.  Miles  of  sun-swamped  green  spread  on  either  side 
— the  carriage  was  full  of  sunshine — it  was  bright  and 
stuffy  like  a  greenhouse.  Joanna  felt  drowsy,  she  lay  back 
in  her  corner  blinking  at  the  sun — she  was  all  quiet  now.  A 
blue-bottle  droned  against  the  window,  and  the  little  engine 
droned,  like  an  impatient  fly — it  was  all  very  still,  very  hot, 
very  peaceful.  .  .  . 

Then  suddenly  something  stirred  within  her — stirred 
physically.  In  some  mysterious  way  she  seemed  to  come 
alive.  She  sat  up,  pressing  her  hand  to  her  side.  A  flood 
of  colour  went  up  into  her  face — her  body  trembled,  and 
the  tears  started  in  her  eyes  .  ,  .  she  felt  herself  choking 
with  wild  fear,  and  wild  joy. 

§  34 

Oh,  she  understood  now.  She  understood,  and  she  was 
certain.  She  knew  now — she  knew,  and  she  was  fright- 
ened .  .  .  oh,  she  was  frightened  .  .  .  now  everything  was 
over  with  her  indeed. 

Joanna  nearly  fainted.  She  fell  in  a  heap  against  the 
window,  looking  more  than  ever,  as  the  sunshine  poured  on 
her,  like  a  great  golden,  broken  flower.  She  felt  herself 
choking  and  managed  to  right  herself — the  window  was 
down,  and  a  faint  puff  of  air  came  in  from  the  sea,  lifting 
her  hair  as  she  leaned  back  against  the  wooden  wall  of  the 
carriage,  her  mouth  a  little  open,  .  .  .  She  felt  better  now, 
but  still  so  frightened.  .  .  .  She  was  done  for,  she  was 
finished — there  would  not  be  any  more  talk  of  going  back 
and  picking  up  things  where  she  had  let  them  drop.  She 
would  have  to  marry  Bertie — there  was  no  help  for  it,  she 
would  send  him  a  telegram  from  Brodnyx  station.  Oh, 
that  this  should  have  happened !  .  .  .  And  she  had  been 
feeling  so  much  easier  in  her  mind — she  had  almost  begun 
to  feel  happy  again,  thinking  of  the  old  home  and  the  old 
life.    And  now  she  knew  that  they  had  gone  for  ever — the 


JOANNA    GODDEN  337 

old  home  and  the  old  life.  She  had  cut  herself  away  from 
both — she  would  have  to  marry  Albert,  to  shut  her  little 
clerk  in  prison  after  all,  and  herself  with  him.  She  would 
have  to  humble  herself  before  him,  she  would  have  to 
promise  to  go  and  live  with  him  in  London,  do  all  she  pos- 
sibly could  to  make  his  marriage  easy  for  him.  He  did  not 
want  to  marry  her,  and  she  did  not  want  to  marry  him,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it,  they  must  marry  now,  because  of 
what  their  love  had  given  them  before  it  died. 

She  had  no  tears  for  this  new  tragedy.  She  leaned  for- 
ward in  her  seat,  her  hands  clasped  between  her  knees,  her 
eyes  staring  blankly  at  the  carriage  wall  as  if  she  saw  there 
her  future  written  .  .  .  herself  and  Albert  growing  old  to- 
gether, or  rather  herself  growing  old  while  Albert  lived 
through  his  eager,  selfish  youth,  herself  and  Albert  shut  up 
together  .  .  .  how  he  would  scold  her,  how  he  would  re- 
proach her — he  would  say  "You  have  brought  me  to  this," 
and  in  time  he  would  come  to  hate  her,  his  fellow-prisoner 
who  had  shut  the  door  on  them  both — and  he  would  hate 
her  child  .  .  .  they  would  never  have  married  except  for 
the  child,  so  he  would  hate  her  child,  scold  it,  make  it  miser- 
able ...  it  would  grow  up  in  an  unhappy  home,  with  par- 
ents who  did  not  love  each  other,  who  owed  it  a  grudge  for 
coming  to  them — her  child,  her  precious  child.  ,  .  . 

Still  in  her  heart,  alive  under  all  the  fc^ar,  was  that  thrill 
of  divine  joy  which  had  come  to  her  in  the  first  moment  of 
realisation.  Terror,  shame,  despair — none  of  them  could 
kill  it,  for  that  joy  was  a  part  of  her  being,  part  of  the  new 
being  which  had  quickened  in  her.  It  belonged  to  them 
both — it  was  the  secret  they  shared  .  .  .  joy,  unutterable 
joy.  Yes,  she  was  glad  she  was  going  to  have  this  child — • 
she  would  still  be  glad  even  in  the  prison-house  of  mairiagc, 
she  would  still  be  glad  even  in  the  desert  of  no-marriage, 
every  tongue  wagging,  every  finger  pointing,  every  heart 
despising.  Nothing  could  take  lier  joy  from  her — make  her 
less  than  joyful  mother.   .  .  . 

Then  as  the  joy  grew  and  rose  above  the  fear,  she  knew 


338  JOANNA    GODDEN 

that  she  could  never  let  fear  drive  her  into  bondage.  Noth- 
ing should  make  a  sacrifice  of  joy  to  shame — to  save  herself 
she  would  not  bring  up  her  child  in  the  sorrow  and  degrada- 
tion of  a  loveless  home.  ...  If  she  had  been  strong  enough 
to  give  up  the  thought  of  marriage  for  the  sake  of  Bertie's 
liberty  and  her  own  self-respect,  she  could  be  strong  enough 
now  to  turn  from  her  only  hope  of  reputation  for  the  sake 
of  the  new  life  which  was  joy  within  her.  It  would  be  the 
worst,  most  shattering  thing  she  had  ever  yet  endured,  but 
she  would  go  through  with  it  for  the  love  of  the  unborn. 
Joanna  was  not  so  unsophisticated  as  to  fail  to  realise  the 
difficulties  and  complications  of  her  resolve — how  much  her 
child  would  suffer  for  want  of  a  father's  name;  memories 
of  lapsed  dairymaids  had  stressed  in  her  experience  the 
necessity  of  a  marriage  no  matter  how  close  to  the  birth. 
But  she  did  not  rate  these  difficulties  higher  than  the  misery 
of  such  a  home  as  hers  and  Albert's  would  be.  Better  any- 
thing than  that.  Joanna  had  no  illusions  about  Albert  now 
— he'd  have  led  her  a  dog's  life  if  she  had  married  him  in 
the  first  course  of  things;  now  it  would  be  even  worse,  and 
her  child  should  not  suffer  that. 

No,  she  would  do  her  best.  Possibly  she  could  arrange 
things  so  as  to  protect,  at  least  to  a  certain  extent,  the  name 
her  baby  was  to  bear.  She  would  have  to  give  up  Ansdore, 
of  course — leave  Walland  Marsh  .  .  .  her  spirit  quailed — 
but  she  braced  it  fiercely.  She  was  going  through  with  this 
— it  was  the  only  thing  Lawrence  had  told  her  that  she 
could  do — go  softly  all  her  days — to  the  very  end.  That 
end  was  further  and  bitterer  than  either  he  or  she  had 
imagined  then,  but  she  would  not  have  to  go  all  the  way 
alone.  A  child — that  was  what  she  had  always  wanted ;  she 
had  tried  to  fill  her  heart  with  other  things,  with  Ansdore, 
with  Ellen,  with  men  .  .  .  but  what  she  had  always  wanted 
had  been  a  child — she  saw  that  now.  Her  child  should  have 
been  born  in  easy,  honourable  circumstances,  with  a  kind 
father — Arthur  Alee,  perhaps,  since  it  could  not  be  Martin 
Trevor.    But  the  circumstances  of  its  birth  were  her  doing, 


JOANNA    GODDEN  339 

and  it  was  she  who  would  face  them.  The  circumstances 
only  were  her  sin  and  shame,  her  undying  regret — since  she 
knew  she  could  not  keep  them  entirely  to  herself — the  rest 
was  joy  and  thrilling,  vital  peace. 

The  little  train  pulled  itself  together,  and  ran  on  into 
Brodnyx  station.  Joanna  climbed  down  on  the  wooden 
platform,  and  signalled  to  the  porter-stationmaster  to  take 
out  her  box. 

"What,  you  back,  Miss  Godden !"  he  said,  "we  wasn't 
expecting  you." 

"No,  I've  come  back  pretty  sudden.  Do  you  know  if 
there's  any  traps  going  over  Pedlinge  way?" 

"There's  Mrs.  Furnese  come  over  to  fetch  a  crate  of 
fowls.     Maybe  she'd  give  you  a  lift." 

"I'll  ask  her,"  said  Joanna. 

Mrs.  Furnese,  too,  was  much  surprised  to  see  her  back, 
but  she  said  nothing  about  it,  partly  because  she  was  a 
woman  of  few  words,  and  partly  because  they'd  all  seen  in 
the  paper  this  morning  that  Joanna  had  lost  her  Case — and 
reckon  she  must  be  properly  upset.  Maybe  that  was  why 
she  had  come  back.  .  .  . 

"Would  you  like  to  drive?"  she  asked  Joanna,  when  they 
had  taken  their  seats  in  Mislcham's  ancient  gig,  with  the 
crate  of  fowls  behind  them.  She  felt  rather  shy  of  han- 
dling the  reins  under  Joanna  Goddcn's  eye,  for  everyone 
knew  that  Joanna  drove  like  Jehu,  something  tur'blc. 

But  the  great  woman  shook  her  head.  She  felt  tired,  she 
said,  with  the  heat.  So  Mrs.  Furnese  drove,  and  Joanna 
sat  silently  beside  her,  watching  her  thick  brown  hand  on 
the  reins,  with  the  wedding  ring  embedded  deep  in  the 
gnarled  finger. 

"Reckon  she's  properly  upset  with  that  case,"  thought  the 
married  woman  to  herself,  "and  sarve  her  right  for  bring- 
ing it.  She  could  easily  have  paid  them  missionaries,  with 
all  the  money  she  had.  But  it  was  ever  Joanna's  way  to 
make  a  tcrrification." 

They  jogged  on  over  the  winding,  white  ribbon  of  road — 


340  JOANNA    GODDEN 

through  Brodnyx  village,  past  the  huge  barn-like  church 
which  had  both  inspired  and  reproached  her  faith,  with  its 
black,  caped  tower  canting  over  it,  on  to  Walland  Marsh, 
to  the  crossroads  at  the  Woolpack — My,  how  they  would 
talk  at  the  Woolpack!  .  .  .  but  she  would  be  far  away  by 
then  .  .  .  where?  .  .  .  She  didn't  know,  she  would  think 
of  that  later — when  she  had  told  Ellen.  Oh,  there  would 
be  trouble — there  would  be  the  worst  she'd  ever  have  to 
swallow — when  she  told  Ellen.  .  .  . 


§35 

Joanna  saw  Ansdore  looking  at  her  through  the  chaflfy 
haze  of  the  August  afternoon.  It  stewed  like  an  apple  in 
the  sunshine,  and  a  faint  smell  of  apples  came  from  it,  as 
its  great  orchard  dragged  its  boughs  in  the  grass.  They 
were  reaping  the  Gate  Field  close  to  the  house — the  hum  of 
the  reaper  came  to  her,  and  seemed  in  some  mysterious  way 
to  be  the  voice  of  Ansdore  itself,  droning  in  the  sunshine 
and  stillness.  She  felt  her  throat  tighten,  and  winked  the 
tears  from  her  eyes. 

She  could  see  Ellen  coming  down  the  drive,  a  cool,  white, 
belted  figure,  with  trim  white  feet.  From  her  bedroom 
window  Ellen  had  seen  the  Misleham  gig  turn  in  at  the 
gate,  and  had  at  once  recognised  the  golden  blot  beside  Mrs. 
Furnese  as  her  sister  Joanna. 

"Hullo,  Jo !  I  never  expected  you  back  today.  Did  you 
send  a  wire  ? — For  if  you  did,  I  never  got  it." 

"No,  I  didn't  telegraph.  Where's  Mene  Tekel?  Tell  her 
to  come  around  with  Nan  and  carry  up  my  box.  Mrs.  Fur- 
nese, ma'am,  I  hope  you'll  step  in  and  drink  a  cup  of  tea." 

Joanna  climbed  down  and  kissed  Ellen — her  cheek  was 
warm  and  moist,  and  her  hair  hung  rough  about  her  ears, 
over  one  of  which  the  orange  toque,  many  times  set  right, 
had  come  down  in  a  final  confusion.  Ellen  on  the  other 
hand  was  as  cool  as  she  was  white — and  her  hair  lay  smooth 
under  a  black  velvet  fillet.    Of  late  it  seemed  as  if  her  face 


JOANNA    GODDEN  341 

had  acquired  a  brooding  air;  it  had  lost  its  exotic  look,  it 
was  dreamy,  almost  virginal.  Joanna  felt  her  sister's  kiss 
like  snow. 

"Is  tea  ready?" 

"No — it's  only  half -past  three.  But  you  can  have  it  at 
once.  You  look  tired.  Why  didn't  you  send  a  wire,  and 
I'd  have  had  the  trap  to  meet  you." 

"I  never  troubled,  and  I've  managed  well  enough.  Ain't 
you  coming  in,  Mrs.  Furnese?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Miss  Godden — much  obliged  all  the 
same.    I've  my  man's  tea  to  get,  and  these  fowls  to  see  to." 

She  felt  that  the  sisters  would  want  to  be  alone.  Joanna 
would  tell  Ellen  all  about  her  failure,  and  Mene  Tekel  and 
Nan  would  overhear  as  much  as  they  could,  and  tell  Broad- 
hurst  and  Crouch  and  the  other  men,  who  would  tell  the 
Woolpack  bar,  where  Mr.  Furnese  would  hear  it  and  bring 
it  home  to  Mrs.  Furnese.  ...  So  her  best  way  of  learning 
the  truth  about  the  appeal  and  exactly  how  many  thousands 
Joanna  had  lost  depended  on  her  going  home  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

Joanna  was  glad  to  be  alone.  She  went  with  Ellen  into 
the  cool  parlour,  drinking;  in  the  relief  of  its  solid  com- 
fort compared  with  the  gimcrackiness  of  the  parlour  at 
Lewisham. 

"I'm  sorry  about  your  aj^peal,"  said  Ellen — "I  saw  in 
today's  paper  that  you've  lost  it." 

Joanna  had  forgotten  all  about  the  appeal — it  seemed 
twenly-four  years  ago  instead  of  twenty-four  hours  that 
she  had  come  out  of  the  law-cf)ur(s  anrl  seen  Bertie  stand- 
ing there  with  the  pigeons  strutting  round  his  feet — but  she 
welcomed  it  as  a  part  explanation  of  her  appearance,  which 
she  saw  now  was  deplorable,  and  her  state  of  mind,  which 
she  found  impossible  to  disguise. 

"Yes,  it's  terrible — I'm  tedious  upset." 

"I  suppose  you've  lost  a  lot  of  money." 

"Not  more  than  I  can  nfforc]  to  pay" — the  old  Joanna 
came  out  and  boasted  for  a  minute. 


342  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"That's  one  comfort." 

Joanna  looked  at  her  sister  and  opened  her  mouth,  but 
shut  it  as  Mene  Tekel  came  in  with  the  tea  tray  and  Arthur 
Alce's  good  silver  service. 

Mene  set  the  tea  as  silently  as  the  defects  of  her  respira- 
tory apparatus  would  admit,  and  once  again  Joanna  sighed 
with  relief  as  she  thought  of  the  clatter  made  by  Her  at 
Lewisham.  .  .  .  Oh,  there  was  no  denying  that  she  had  a 
good  house  and  good  servants  and  had  done  altogether  well 
for  herself  until  in  a  fit  of  wickedness  she  had  bust  it  all. 

She  would  not  tell  Ellen  tonight.  She  would  wait  till 
tomorrow  morning,  when  she'd  had  a  good  sleep.  She  felt 
tired  now,  and  would  cry  the  minute  Ellen  began.  .  .  .  But 
she'd  let  her  know  about  the  breaking  off  of  her  engage- 
ment— that  would  prepare  the  way,  like. 

"Ellen,"  she  said,  after  she  had  drunk  her  tea — "one  rea- 
son I'm  so  upset  is  that  I've  just  broken  off  my  marriage 
with  my  intended." 

"Joanna !" 

Ellen  put  down  her  cup  and  stared  at  her.  In  her  anxiety 
to  hide  her  emotion,  Joanna  had  spoken  more  in  anger  than 
in  sorrow,  so  her  sister's  pity  was  checked. 

"What  ever  made  you  do  that?" 

"We  found  we  didn't  suit." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  must  say  the  difference  in  your  age 
made  me  rather  anxious.  Thirteen  years  on  the  woman's 
side  is  rather  a  lot,  you  know.  But  I  knew  you'd  always 
liked  boys,  so  I  hoped  for  the  best." 

"Well,  it's  all  over  now." 

"Poor  old  Joanna,  it  must  have  been  dreadful  for  you — ■ 
on  the  top  of  your  failure  in  the  courts,  too ;  but  I'm  sure 
you  were  wise  to  break  it  off.  Only  the  most  absolute  cer- 
tainty could  have  justified  such  a  marriage." 

She  smiled  to  herself.  When  she  said  "absolute  cer- 
tainty" she  was  thinking  of  Tip. 

"Well,  I've  got  a  bit  of  a  headache,"  said  Joanna  rising — 
"I  think  I'll  go  and  have  a  lay  down." 


JOANNA    GODDEN  343 

"Do,  dear.  Would  you  like  me  to  come  up  with  you  and 
help  you  undress  ?" 

"No,  thanks.  I'll  do  by  myself.  You  might  ask  the  girl 
to  bring  me  up  a  jug  of  hot  water.  Reckon  I  shan't  be  any 
worse  for  a  good  wash." 

§36 

Much  as  Joanna  was  inclined  to  boast  of  her  new  bath- 
room at  Ansdore,  she  did  not  personally  make  much  use  of 
it,  having  perhaps  a  secret  fear  of  its  unfriendly  whiteness, 
and  a  love  of  the  homely,  steaming  jug  which  had  been  the 
fount  of  her  ablutions  since  her  babyhood's  tub  was  given 
up.  This  evening  she  removed  the  day's  grime  from  herself 
by  a  gradual  and  excessively  modest  process,  and  about  one 
and  a  half  pints  of  hot  water.  Then  she  twisted  her  hair 
into  two  ropes,  put  on  a  clean  nightgown,  and  got  into  bed. 

Her  body's  peace  between  the  cool,  coarse  sheets  seemed 
to  thrill  to  her  soul.  She  felt  at  home  and  at  rest.  It  was 
funny  being  in  bed  at  that  time  in  the  afternoon — scarcely 
past  four  o'clock — it  was  funny,  but  it  was  good.  The  sun- 
shine was  coming  into  the  room,  a  spill  of  misty  gold  on  the 
floor  and  furniture,  and  from  where  she  lay  she  could  see 
the  green  boundaries  of  the  marsh.  Oh,  it  would  be  ter- 
rible when  she  saw  that  marsh  no  more  .  .  .  the  tears  rose, 
and  she  turned  her  face  to  the  pillow.  It  was  all  over  now 
— all  her  ambition,  all  her  success,  all  the  greatness  of 
Joanna  Godden.  She  had  made  Ansdore  great  and  pros- 
perous though  she  was  a  woman,  and  then  she  had  lost  it 
because  she  was  a  woman.  .  .  .  Worfis  that  she  had  uttered 
long  ago  came  back  into  her  mind.  She  saw  herself  stand- 
ing in  the  dairy,  in  front  of  Martha  Tildcn,  whose  face  she 
had  forgotten.  She  was  .saying:  "It's  sad  to  think  you've 
kept  yourself  straight  for  years  and  then  gone  wrong  at 
last.  .  .  ." 

Yes,  it  was  sad  .  .  .  and  now  she  was  being  punished 
for  it ;  but  wrapped  up  in  her  punishment,  sweetening  its 


344  JOANNA    GODDEN 

very  heart,  was  a  comfort  she  did  not  deserve.  Ansdore 
was  slowly  fading  in  her  thoughts,  as  it  had  always  faded 
in  the  presence  of  any  vital  instinct,  whether  of  love  or 
death.  Ansdore  could  never  be  to  her  what  her  child  would 
be — none  of  her  men,  except  perhaps  Martin,  could  have 
been  to  her  what  her  child  would  be.  .  .  .  "If  it's  a  boy 
I'll  call  it  Martin— if  it's  a  girl  I'll  call  it  Ellen,"  she  said  to 
herself.  Then  she  doubted  whether  Ellen  would  appreciate 
the  compliment  .  .  .  but  she  would  not  let  herself  think  of 
Ellen  tonight.    That  was  tomorrow's  evil. 

"I'll  have  to  make  some  sort  of  a  plan,  though — I'll  have 
to  sell  this  place  and  give  Ellen  a  share  of  it.  And  me — 
where  ull  I  go?" 

She  must  go  pretty  far,  so  that  when  the  child  came 
Brodnyx  and  Pedlinge  would  not  get  to  know  about  it.  She 
w^ould  have  to  go  at  least  as  far  as  Brighton  .  .  .  then  she 
remembered  Martha  Relf  and  her  lodgings  at  Chichester — 
"that  wouldn't  be  bad,  to  go  to  Martha  just  for  a  start.  Me 
leaving  Ansdore  for  the  same  reason  as  she  left  it  thirteen 
year  ago  .  .  .  that's  queer  .  .  .  'Look  here,  Martha,  take 
me  in,  so's  I  can  have  my  child  in  peace  same  as  you  had 
yours'.  ...  I  should  ought  to  get  some  stout  money  for 
this  farm — eight  thousand  pounds  if  it's  eightpence— though 
reckon  the  Government  ull  want  about  half  of  it  and  we'll 
have  all  that  terrification  started  again  .  .  .  howsumever, 
I  guess  I'll  get  enough  of  it  to  live  on,  even  when  Ellen  has 
her  bit  .  .  .  and  maybe  the  folk  around  here  ull  think  I'm 
sold  up  because  my  case  has  bust  me,  and  that'll  save  me 
something  of  their  talk." 

Well,  well,  she  was  doing  the  best  she  could — though 
Lawrence  on  his  blind,  obedient  way  to  Africa  was  scarcely 
going  on  a  further,  lonelier  journey  than  that  on  which 
Joanna  was  setting  out. 

"Oh,  Martin,"  she  whispered,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  pic- 
ture on  her  chest  of  drawers — "I  wish  I  could  feel  you 
close." 

It  was  years  since  she  had  really  let  herself  think  o*  him, 


JOANNA   GODDEN  345 

but  now  strange  barriers  of  thought  had  broken  down,  and 
she  seemed  to  go  to  and  fro  quite  easily  into  the  past. 
Whether  it  was  her  love  for  Bertie,  whom  in  her  blindness 
she  had  thought  like  him,  or  her  meeting  with  Lawrence,  or 
the  new  hope  within  her,  she  did  not  trouble  to  ask — but 
that  strange,  long  forbidding  was  gone.  She  was  free  to 
remember  all  their  going  out  and  coming  in  together,  his 
sweet  fiery  kisses,  the  ways  of  the  marsh  that  he  had  made 
wonderful.  Throughout  her  being  there  was  a  strange  sense 
of  release — broken,  utterly  done  and  finished  as  she  was 
from  the  worldly  point  of  view,  there  was  in  her  heart  a 
springing  hope,  a  sweet  softness — she  could  indeed  go  softly 
at  last. 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  climbed  out  of  bed  and 
knelt  down  beside  it.  It  was  weeks  since  she  had  said  her 
prayers — not  since  that  night  when  Bert  had  come  into  her 
room.  But  now  that  her  heart  was  quite  melted  she  wanted 
to  ask  God  to  help  her  and  forgive  her. 

"Oh,  please  God,  forgive  me.  I  know  I  been  wicked,  but 
I'm  unaccountable  sorry.  And  I'm  going  through  with  it. 
Please  help  my  child — don't  let  it  get  hurt  for  my  fault. 
Help  me  to  do  my  best  and  not  grumble,  seeing  as  it's  all 
my  own  wickedness  ;  and  I'm  sorry  I  broke  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments, but  please  forgive  me.  'Lord  have  mercy  upon 
us  and  write  all  these  thy  laws  in  our  hearts,  we  beseech 
thee.'    For  Qirist's  sake.     Amen." 

This  liturgical  outburst  seemed  wondrously  to  heal 
Joanna — it  seemed  to  link  her  up  again  with  the  centre  of 
her  religion — Brodnyx  church,  with  the  big  pews,  and  the 
hassocks,  and  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  over  the  north  door 
— she  felt  readmitted  into  the  congregation  of  llic  faithful, 
and  her  heart  was  full  of  thankfulness  and  loyalty.  She 
rose  from  lier  knees,  climbed  into  bccl,  and  curled  up  ors 
her  side.    Ten  minutes  later  she  was  sound  asleep. 


346  JOANNA   GODDEN 

§  34 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast,  Joanna  faced  Ellen  in 
the  dining-room. 

"Ellen,"  she  said — "I'm  going  to  sell  Ansdore." 

"You're  what?" 

"I'm  going  to  put  up  this  place  for  auction  in  September." 

"Joanna !" 

Ellen  stared  at  her  in  amazement,  alarm,  and  some 
sympathy. 

"I'm  driving  in  to  tell  Edward  Huxtable  about  it  this 
morning.  Not  that  I  trust  him,  after  the  mess  he  made  of 
my  Case ;  howsumever,  I  can  look  after  him  in  this  busi- 
ness, and  the  auctioneer  too." 

"But,  my  dear,  I  thought  you  said  you'd  plenty  of  money 
to  meet  your  losses." 

"So  I  have.    That's  not  why  I'm  selling." 

"Then  why  on  earth  .  .  ." 

The  colour  mounted  to  Joanna's  face.  She  looked  at  her 
sister's  delicate,  thoughtful  face,  with  its  air  of  quiet  happi- 
ness. The  room  was  full  of  sunshine,  and  Ellen  was  all 
in  white. 

"Ellen,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something  .  .  .  because 
you're  my  sister.  And  I  trust  you  not  to  let  another  living 
soul  know  what  I've  told  you.  As  I  kept  your  secret  four 
years  ago,  so  now  you  can  keep  mine." 

Ellen's  face  lost  a  little  of  its  repose — suddenly,  for  a 
moment,  she  looked  like  the  Ellen  of  "four  years  ago." 

"Really,  Joanna,  you  might  refrain  from  raking  up  the 
past." 

"I'm  sorry — I  didn't  mean  to  rake  up  nothing.  I've  no 
right — seeing  as  what  I  want  to  tell  you  is  that  I'm  just  the 
same  as  you." 

Ellen  turned  white. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  cried  furiously. 

^T  mean — I'm  going  to  have  a  child." 


i 


JOANNA    GODDEN  347 

Ellen  stared  at  her  without  speaking,  her  mouth  fell  open ; 
then  her  face  began  working  in  a  curious  way. 

"I  know  I  been  wicked,"  continued  Joanna,  in  a  dull, 
level  voice — "but  it's  too  late  to  help  that  now.     The  only 
thing  now  is  to  do  the  best  I  can,  and  that  is  get  out  of  here." 
"Do  you  know  what  you're  talking  about?"  said  Ellen. 
"Yes — I  know  right  enough.     It's  true  what  Fm  telling 
you.    I  didn't  know  for  certain  till  yesterday." 
"Are  you  quite  sure?" 
"Certain  sure." 
"But—" 

Ellen  drummed  with  her  fingers  on  the  table,  her  hands 
were  shaking,  her  colour  came  and  went. 
"Joanna — is  it  Bertie's  child?" 
"Of  course  it  is." 

"Then  why — why  in  God's  name  did  you  break  off  the 
engagement  ?" 

"I  tell  you  I  didn't  know  till  yesterday.     I'd  been  scared 
once  or  twice,  but  he  told  me  it  was  all  right." 
"Does  he  know?" 
"He  doesn't." 

"Then  he  must  be  told"— Ellen  sprang  to  her  feet — 
"Joanna,  what  a  fool  you  are !  You  must  send  him  a  wire 
at  once  and  tell  him  to  come  down  here.  You  must  marry 
him." 

"That  I  won't !" 

"But  you're  mad — really,  you've  no  choice  in  the  matter. 
You  must  marry  him  at  once." 
"I  tell  you  I'll  never  do  that." 

"If   you    don't  .  .  .  can't   you   sec   what'll   happen? — are 
you  an  absolute  fool?     If  you  don't  marry  this  man.  your 
child  will  be  illegitimate,  you'll  be  kicked  out  of  decent  so- 
ciety, and  you'll  bring  us  all  to  ruin  and  disgrace." 
Ellen  burst  into  tears.    Joanna  fought  back  her  own. 
"Listen  to  me.  Ellen." 
But  Ellen  sobbed  brokenly  on.    It  was  as  if  her  own  past 


348  JOANNA   GODDEN 

had  risen  from  its  grave  and  laid  cold  hands  upon  her,  just 
when  she  thought  it  was  safely  buried  forever. 

"Don't  you  see  what'll  happen  if  you  refuse  to  marry  this 
man? — It'll  ruin  me — it'll  spoil  my  marriage.  Tip  .  .  . 
Good  God !  he's  risen  to  a  good  deal,  seeing  the  ideas  most 
Englishmen  have  .  .  .  but  now  you — you — " 

''Ellen,  you  don't  mean  as  Tip  ull  get  shut  of  you  because' 
of  me?" 

"No,  of  course  I  don't.  But  it's  asking  too  much  of  him 
— it  isn't  fair  to  him  .  .  .  he'll  think  he's  marrying  into  a 
fine  family!" — And  Ellen's  tears  broke  into  some  not  very 
pleasant  laughter — "both  of  us  .  .  .  Oh,  he  was  sweet  about 
me,  he  understood — but  now  you — you! — Whatever  made 
you  do  it,  Joanna?" 

"I  dunno.  ...  I  loved  him,  and  I  was  mad." 

"I  think  it's  horrible  of  you — perfectly  horrible.  I'd  ab- 
solutely no  idea  you  were  that  sort  of  woman — I  thought  at 
least  you  were  decent  and  respectable.  ...  A  man  you 
were  engaged  to,  too.  Oh,  I  know  what  you're  thinking — 
you're  thinking  I'm  in  the  same  boat  as  you  are,  but  I  tell 
you  I'm  not.  I  was  a  married  woman — I  couldn't  have 
married  my  lover,  I'd  a  right  to  take  what  I  could  get.  But 
you  could  have  married  yours — you  were  going  to  marry 
him.  But  you  lost  your  head — like  a  common  servant — 
like  the  girl  you  sacked  years  ago  when  you  thought  I  was 
too  young  to  understand  anything  about  it.  And  I  never 
landed  myself  with  a  child — at  least  there  was  some  possi- 
bility of  wiping  out  what  I'd  done  when  it  proved  a  mis- 
take, some  chance  of  living  it  down — and  I've  done  it,  I've 
won  my  way  back,  and  now  you  come  along  and  disgrace  me 
all  over  again,  and  the  man  I  love.  .  .  ." 

Never  had  Ellen's  voice  been  so  like  Joanna's.  It  had 
risen  to  a  hoarse  note  where  it  hung  suspended — anyone 
now  would  know  that  they  were  sisters. 

"I  tell  you  I'm  sorry,  Ellen.  But  I  can't  do  anything 
about  it." 


JOANNA   GODDEN  349 

"Yes,  you  can.  You  can  marry  this  man  Hill — then  no 
one  need  ever  know,  Tip  need  never  know — " 

"Reckon  that  wouldn't  keep  them  from  knowing.  They'd 
see  as  I  was  getting  married  in  a  hurry — not  an  invitation  out 
and  my  troossoo  not  half  ready — and  then  they'd  count  the 
months  till  the  baby  came.  No,  I  tell  you,  it'll  be  much  better 
if  I  go  away.  Everyone  ull  think  as  I'm  bust,  through  hav- 
ing lost  my  case,  and  I'll  go  right  away — Qiichester,  I'd 
thought  of  going  to,  where  Martha  Relf  is — and  when  the 
baby  comes,  no  one  ull  be  a  bit  the  wiser." 

"Of  course  they  will.  They'll  know  all  about  it — every- 
thing gets  known  here,  and  you've  never  in  your  life  been 
able  to  keep  a  secret.  If  you  marry,  people  won't  talk  in  the 
same  way — it'll  be  only  guessing,  anyhow.  You  needn't  be 
down  here  when  the  baby's  born — and  at  least  Tip  needn't 
know.  Joanna,  if  you  love  me,  if  you  ever  loved  me,  you'll 
send  a  wire  to  this  man  and  tell  him  that  you've  changed 
your  mind  and  must  sec  him — you  can  easily  make  up  the 
quarrel,  whatever  it  was." 

"Maybe  he  wouldn't  marry  me  now,  even  if  I  did  wire." 

"Nonsense,  he'd  have  to." 

"Well,  he  won't  be  asked." 

Joanna  was  stififening  with  grief.  She  had  not  expected 
to  have  this  battle  with  Ellen  ;  she  had  been  prepared  for 
abuse  and  upbraiding,  but  not  for  argument — it  had  not 
struck  her  that  her  sister  would  demand  the  rehabilitation 
she  herself  refused. 

"You're  perfectly  shameless,"  sobbed  Ellon.  "My  Ciod  ! 
It  ud  take  a  woman  like  you  to  brazen  through  a  thing  like 
this.  Swanking,  swaggering,  you've  always  been  .  ,  . 
well,  I  bet  you'll  find  this  too  much  even  for  your  swagger 
— you  don't  know  what  you're  letting  yourself  in  for  .  .  . 
I  can  tell  you  a  little,  for  I've  known.  I've  felt,  what  p<"nple 
can  be  .  .  .  I've  had  to  face  them — when  you  wouldn't 
let  Arthur  give  me  my  divorce." 

"Well.  I'll  justabout  have  to  face  'em,  that's  all.  I  done 
wrong,  and  I  don't  ask  not  to  be  punished." 


350  JOANNA    GODDEN 

"You're  an  absolute  fool.  And  if  you  won't  do  anything 
for  your  own  sake,  you  might  at  least  do  something  for  mine. 
I  tell  you  I'm  not  like  you — I  do  think  of  other  people — and 
for  Tip's  sake  I  can't  have  everyone  talking  about  you,  and 
maybe  my  own  story  raked  up  again.  I  won't  have  him 
punished  for  his  goodness.  If  you  won't  marry  and  be  re- 
spectable, I  tell  you,  you  needn't  think  I'll  ever  let  you  see 
me  again." 

"But,  Ellen,  supposing  even  there  is  talk — you  and  Tip 
won't  be  here  to  hear  it.  You'll  be  married  by  then  and  away 
in  Wiltshire.    Tip  need  never  know."  w^ 

"How  can  he  help  knowing,  as  long  as  you've  got  a  tongue 
in  your  head?  And  what'U  he  think  you're  doing  at  Chi- 
chester? No,  I  tell  you,  Joanna,  unless  you  marry  Hill, 
you  can  say  goodbye  to  me" — she  was  speaking  quite  calmly 
now — "I  don't  want  to  be  hard  and  unsisterly,  but  I  happen 
to  love  the  man  who's  going  to  be  my  husband  better  than 
anyone  in  the  world.  He's  been  good,  and  I'm  not  going  to 
have  his  goodness  put  upon.  He's  marrying  a  woman  who's 
had  trouble  and  scandal  in  her  life,  but  at  least  he's  not  going 
to  have  the  shame  of  that  woman's  sister.  So  you  can  choose 
between  me  and  yourself." 

"It  ain't  between  you  and  myself.  It's  between  you  and 
my  child.  It's  for  my  child's  sake  I  won't  marry  Bertie 
Hill." 

"My  dear  Joanna,  are  you  quite  an  ass?  Can't  you  see 
that  the  person  who  will  suffer  most  for  all  this  is  your 
child?  I  didn't  bring  in  that  argument  before,  as  I  didn't 
think  it  would  appeal  to  you — but  surely  you  see  that  the 
position  of  an  illegitimate  child   ..." 

"Is  much  better  than  the  child  of  folk  who  don't  love  each 
other,  and  have  only  married  because  it  was  coming.  I'm 
scared  myself,  and  I  can  scare  Bert,  and  we  can  get  married 
— but  what'll  that  be?  He  don't  love  me — I  don't  love  him. 
He  don't  want  to  marry  me — I  don't  want  to  marry  him. 
He'll  never  forgive  me,  and  all  our  lives  he'll  be  throwinc^ 
it  up  to  me — and  he'll  be  hating  the  child,  seeing  as  it's  only 


JOANNA    GODDEN  351 

because  of  it  we're  married,  and  he'll  make  it  miserable. 
Oh,  you  don't  know  Bertie  as  I  know  him — I  don't  say  it's 
all  his  fault,  poor  boy,  I  reckon  his  mother  didn't  raise  him 
properly — but  you  should  hear  him  speak  to  his  mother  and 
sister,  and  know  what  he'd  be  as  a  husband  and  father.  I 
tell  you,  he  ain't  fit  to  be  the  father  of  a  child." 

"And  are  you  fit  to  be  the  mother?"  Ellen  sneered. 

"Maybe  I  ain't.  But  the  point  is,  I  am  the  mother,  noth- 
ing can  change  that.  And  reckon  I  can  fight,  and  keep  the 
worst  off.  Oh,  I  know  it  ain't  easy,  and  it  ain't  right;  and 
I'll  suffer  for  it,  and  the  worst  ull  be  that  my  child  ull  have 
to  suffer  too.  But  I  tell  you  it  shan't  suft'er  more  than  I  can 
help.  Reckon  I  shan't  manage  so  badly.  I'll  raise  it  among 
strangers,  and  I'll  have  a  nice  little  bit  of  money  to  live  on, 
coming  to  me  from  the  farm,  even  when  I've  paid  you  a 
share,  as  I  shall,  as  is  fitting.  I'll  give  my  child  every  chance 
I  can." 

"Then  it's  a  choice  between  your  child  and  me.  If  you 
do  this  mad  thing,  Joanna,  you'll  have  to  go.  I  can't  have 
you  ever  coming  near  me  and  Tip — it  isn't  only  for  my  own 
sake — it's  for  his." 

"Reckon  we're  both  hurting  each  other  for  somebody 
else's  sake.  But  I  ain't  angry  with  you,  Ellen,  same  as 
you're  angry  with  me." 

"I  am  angry  with  you — I  can't  help  it.  You  go  and  do 
this  utterly  silly  and  horrible  thing,  and  then  instead  of  mak- 
ing the  best  you  can  of  it  for  everybody's  sake,  you  go  on 
blundering  worse  and  worse.  Such  utter  ignorance  of  the 
world  .  .  .  such  utter  ignorance  of  your  own  self  .  .  . 
how  d'you  think  you're  going  to  manage  without  Ansdore? 
Why,  it's  your  very  life — you'll  be  utterly  lost  without  it. 
Think  of  yourself,  starting  an  entirely  new  life  at  your  age 
— nearly  forty.  It's  impossible.  You  don't  know  what 
you're  letting  yourself  in  for.  But  you'll  find  out  when  its 
too  late,  and  then  both  you  and  your  unfortunate  child  ull 
have  to  suffer." 

"If   I   married    Bert   I   couldn't   keep   on    Ansdore.      lie 


352  JOANNA   GODDEN 

wouldn't  marry  me  miless  I  came  to  London — I  know  that 
now.  He's  set  on  Business.  I'd  have  to  go  and  live  with 
him  in  a  street  .  .  .  then  we'd  both  be  miserable,  all  three 
be  miserable.  Now  if  I  go  off  alone,  maybe  later  on  I  can 
get  a  bit  of  land,  and  run  another  farm  in  furrin  parts — by 
Chichester  or  Southampton — just  a  little  one,  to  keep  me 
busy.     Reckon  that  ud  be  fine  and  healthy  for  my  child 

"Your  child  seems  to  be  the  only  thing  you  care  about. 
Really  to  hear  you  talk,  one  ud  almost  think  you  were  glad." 

"I  am  glad." 

Ellen  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"There's  no  good  going  on  with  this  conversation.  You're 
quite  without  feeling  and  quite  without  shame.  I  don't  know 
if  you'll  come  to  your  senses  later,  and  not  perhaps  feel  quite 
so  glad  that  you  have  ruined  your  life,  disgraced  your  family, 
broken  my  heart,  brought  shame  and  trouble  into  the  life  of 
a  good  and  decent  man.    But  at  present  I'm  sick  of  you." 

She  walked  towards  the  door. 

"Ellen,"  cried  Joanna — "don't  go  away  like  that — don't 
think  that  of  me.    I  ain't  glad  in  that  way." 

But  Ellen  would  not  turn  or  speak.  She  went  out  of  the 
door  with  a  queer,  white,  draggled  look  about  her. 

"Ellen,"  cried  Joanna  a  second  time,  but  she  knew  it  was 
no  good   .    .    . 

Well,  she  was  alone  now,  if  ever  a  woman  was. 

She  stood  staring  straight  in  front  of  her,  out  of  the  little 
flower-pot  obscured  window,  into  the  far  distances  of  the 
marsh.  Once  more  the  marsh  wore  its  strange,  occasional 
look  of  being  under  the  sea,  but  this  time  it  was  her  own 
tears  that  had  drowned  it. 

"Child — what  if  the  old  floods  came  again?"  she  seemed 
to  hear  Martin's  voice  as  it  had  spoken  in  a  far-off,  half 
forgotten  time  ...  He  had  talked  to  her  about  those  old 
floods,  he  had  said  they  might  come  again,  and  she  had  said 
they  couldn't.  .  .  .  My!  How  they  used  to  argue  together 
in  those  davs.    He  had  said  that  if  the  floods  came  back  to 


JOANNA   GODDEN  353 

drown  the  marsh,  all  the  church  bells  would  ring  under  the 

SCa*     •     •     • 

She  liked  thinking  of  Martin  in  this  way — it  comforted 
her.  It  made  her  feel  as  if,  now  that  her  present  and  future 
had  been  taken  from  her,  the  past,  so  long  lost,  had  been 
given  back.  And  not  the  past  only,  for  if  her  memories  lived, 
her  hopes  lived  too — not  even  Ellen's  bitterness  could  kill 
them.  .  .  .  There  she  stood,  nearly  forty  years  old,  on  the 
threshold  of  an  entirely  new  life— her  lover,  her  sister,  her 
farm,  her  home,  her  good  name,  all  lost.  But  the  past  and 
the  future  still  were  hers, 


. 


I 


I 


OCT  3  0  1979 

DATE  DUE 

t 

CAYLORO 

ritlNTCO  IN  U.«   A 

I 


V 


5 


PR6021    A93J6    1922 
.     ^      Kaye-Smith,    Sheila,    1887- 

Lf-J  t^  1.956. 

Joanna   Godden, 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  601  425    2 


3  12 


0  00195  6380 


